OFF  SANDY  HOOK 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

THE  MAN  OF  IRON 

ONE  BRAVER  THING  (THE  DOP 
DOCTOR) 

BETWEEN  TWO  THIEVES 
THE  HEADQUARTER  RECRUIT 
THE  COST  OF  WINGS 


OFF  SANDY  HOOK 


AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 


RICHARD  DEHAN 

Author  of  "One  Braver  Thing"  ("The  Dop  Doctor"), 
"The  Man  of  Iron,"  "Between  Two  Thievet,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1915,  by 
FREDEBICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation 
into  foreign  languages 


September,  1915 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

OFF     SANDY     HOOK     .           .           .           .           .           .           r           .           »  1 

GEMINI «          »          .  15 

A  DISH  OF  MACARONI 31 

' '  FEEDDY    &    CIE> "                  .           .           .           .           ,           .           .           .  44 

UNDER  THE  ELECTRICS 60 

"VALCOURT'S  GRIN"        .        .        .        .        .  .        .68 

THE  EVOLUTION  OF  THE  FAIREST 81 

THE  REVOLT  OF  RUSTLETON 95 

A  DYSPEPTIC'S  TRAGEDY  .        .        .        .        .        •    •    •        .  107 

RENOVATION .'••••"       .        .  119 

THE  BREAKING  PLACE 133 

A  LANCASHIRE  DAISY      . 143 

A  PITCHED  BATTLE 154 

THE  TUG  OF  WAR       .........  164 

GAS! 180 

AIR 193 

SIDE! 205 

A  SPIRIT  ELOPEMENT 219 

THE  WIDOW'S  MITE 230 

SUSANNA  AND  HER  ELDERS 241 

LADY  CLANBEVAN'S  BABY 264 

THE   DUCHESS'S   DILEMMA 276 

THE  CHILD       .        .        .        .        .        .               .        .        .  287 

A  HINDERED  HONEYMOON  .        .        .  ' 295 

"CLOTHES — AND  THE  MAN — !" 308 

THE  DEVIL  AND  THE  DEEP  SEA  .  ,317 


2135818 


OFF  SANDY  HOOK 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


OFF  SANDY  HOOK 

ON  board  the  Rampatina  liner,  eleven  days  and  a  half 
out  from  Liverpool,  the  usual  terrific  sensation  created 
by  the  appearance  of  the  pilot-yacht  prevailed.  Necks 
were  craned  and  toes  were  trodden  on  as  the  steamer 
slackened  speed,  and  a  line  dexterously  thrown  by  a 
blue-jerseyed  deck-hand  was  caught  by  somebody  aboard 
the  yacht.  The  pilot,  not  insensible  to  the  fact  of  his 
being  a  personage  of  note,  carefully  divested  his  bearded 
countenance  of  all  expression  as  he  saluted  the  Captain, 
and  taking  from  the  deck-steward's  obsequiously  prof- 
fered salver  a  glass  containing  four-fingers  of  neat  Bour- 
bon whisky,  concealed  its  contents  about  his  person  with- 
out perceptible  emotion,  and  went  up  with  the  First 
Officer  upon  the  upper  bridge  as  the  relieved  skipper 
plunged  below.  The  telegraphs  clicked  their  message — 
the  leviathan  hulk  of  the  liner  quivered  and  began  to 
forge  slowly  ahead,  and  an  intelligent-looking,  thin- 
lipped,  badly-shaved  young  man  in  a  bowler,  tweeds, 
and  striped  necktie,  introduced  himself  to  the  Second 
Officer  as  an  emissary  of  the  Press. 

"Mr.  Cyrus  K.  Pillson,  New  York  Yeller.  .  .  . 
Pleased  to  know  you,  sir, ' '  said  the  Second  Officer ; ' '  step 
into  the  smoke-room,  this  way.  Bar-steward,  a  brandy 
cocktail  for  me,  and  you,  sir,  order  whatever  you  are 
most  in  the  habit  of  hoisting.  Whisky  straight!  Now, 
sir,  happy  to  afford  you  what  information  I  can ! ' ' 

"I  presume,"  observed  the  young  gentleman  of  the 

1 


2  OFF    SANDY    HOOK 

Press,  settling  himself  on  the  springy  morocco  cushions 
and  accepting  the  Second  Officer 's  polite  offer  of  a  green 
Havana  of  the  strongest  kind,  "that  you  have  had  a 
smooth  passage,  considerin '  the  time  of  year  ? ' ' 

' '  Smooth.  .  .  .  "  The  Second  Officer  carefully  re- 
versed in  his  reply  the  Pressman 's  remark :  ' '  Well,  yes, 
the  time  of  year  considered,  a  smooth  passage,  I  take  it, 
we  have  had." 

"No  fogs?"  interrogated  the  young  gentleman,  click- 
ing the  elastic  band  of  a  notebook  which  projected  from 
his  breast-pocket. 

"Fogs?  .    .    .  No !"  said  the  Second  Officer. 

"You  didn't  chance,"  pursued  the  young  gentleman 
of  the  Press,  taking  his  short  drink  from  the  steward's 
salver  and  throwing  it  contemptuously  down  his  throat, 
"to  fall  in  with  a  berg  off  the  Bank,  did  you?" 

"Not  a  smell  of  one!"  replied  the  Second  Officer  with 
decision. 

"Ran  into  a  derelict  hencoop,  perhaps?"  persisted  the 
young  gentleman,  concealing  the  worn  sole  of  a  wearied 
boot  from  the  searching  glare  of  the  electric  light  by 
tucking  it  underneath  him,  "or  an  old  lady's  bonnet- 
box?  ...  or  a  rubber  doll  some  woman's  baby  had 
lost  overboard  ?  No  ? "  he  echoed,  as  the  Second  Officer 
shook  his  head.  ' '  Then,  how  in  thunder  did  you  manage 
to  lose  twenty  feet  of  your  port-rail  ? ' ' 

' '  Carried  away, ' '  said  the  Second  Officer,  offering  the 
young  Press  gentleman  a  light. 

' '  No,  thanks.  Always  eat  mine, ' '  said  the  young  Press 
gentleman  gracefully. 

"Matter  of  taste,"  observed  the  Second  Officer,  blow- 
ing blue  rings. 

"I  guess  so;  and  I've  a  taste  for  knowing  how  you 
came,"  said  the  young  Pressman,  "to  part  with  that 
twenty  foot  of  rail." 

"Carried  away,"  said  the  Second  Officer. 


OFF    SANDY    HOOK  3 

"I  kin  see  that,"  retorted  the  visitor. 

"It  was  carried  away/'  said  the  Second  Officer,  "by 
an  elephant." 

"A  pet  you  had  running  about  aboard?"  queried  the 
Pressman,  with  imperturbable  coolness. 

"A  passenger,"  returned  the  Second  Officer,  with 
equal  calm. 

There  was  a  snap,  and  the  Pressman's  notebook  was 
open  on  his  knee.  The  pencil  vibrated  over  the  virgin 
page,  when  a  curious  utterance,  between  a  wail,  a  cough, 
and  a  roar,  made  the  hand  that  held  it  start. 

' '  Yarr-rr !  Ohowgh !  Yarr ! ' '  The  melancholy  sound 
came  from  without,  borne  on  the  cool  breeze  of  a  late 
afternoon  in  March,  through  the  open  ventilators. 

"Might  that,"  queried  the  young  gentleman  of  the. 
Press,  "be  an  expression  of  opinion  on  the  part  of  the 
elephant?" 

"Lord  love  you,  no!"  said  the  Second  Officer.  "It's 
the  leopard."  He  added  after  a  second's  pause:  "Or 
the  puma." 

"Do  you  happen  to  have  a  menagerie  aboard?"  in- 
quired the  Pressman,  making  a  note  in  shorthand. 

"No,  sir.  The  beasts — elephants,  leopards,  and  a  box 
of  cobras — are  invoiced  from  the  London  Docks  to  a 
wealthy  amateur  in  New  York  State.  Not  an  iron  king, 
or  a  corn  king,  or  a  cotton  king,  or  a  pickle  king,  or  a 
kerosene  king,"  said  the  Second  Officer,  with  a  steady 
upper  lip,  "but  a  chewing-gum  king." 

"If  you  mean  Shadland  C.  McOster,"  said  the  Press- 
man, "my  mother  is  his  cousin.  They  used  to  chew 
gum  together  in  school  recess,  sir,  little  guessing  that 
Shad  would  one  day  soar,  on  wings  made  of  that  article, 
to  the  realms  of  gilded  plutocracy." 

"I  rather  imagine  the  name  you  mention  to  be  the 
right  one,"  said  the  Second  Officer  cautiously,  "but  I 
won't  commit  myself.  The  beasts  shipped  from  Liver- 


4  OFF    SANDY    HOOK 

pool  are  intended  as  a  present  for  the  purchaser's  in- 
fant daughter  on  her  fifth  birthday." 

"Yarr-rr!  Ohowgh!  Ohowgh!"  Again  the  cough- 
ing roar  vibrated  through  the  smoke-room.  Then  the 
chorus  of  "Hail  Columbia!"  rose  from  the  promenade 
deck,  where  the  lady  passengers  were  assembled  ready 
to  wave  starred  and  striped  silk  pocket-handkerchiefs 
and  exchange  patriotic  sentiments  at  the  first  glimpse 
of  land. 

"It's  not  what  I  should  call  a  humly  voice,  that  of 
the  leopard, ' '  observed  the  Pressman,  controlling  a  slight 
shiver. 

"Children  have  queer  tastes,"  said  the  Second  Offi- 
cer. "And  it's  as  well  Old  Spots  is  lively,  as  Bingo's 
dead." 

"Bingo?"  queried  the  Pressman. 

"Bingo  was  the  elephant,"  said  the  Second  Officer, 
passing  the  palm  of  his  brown  right  hand  over  his  upper 
lip  as  the  Pressman  made  a  few  rapid  notes.  "And  if 
the  particulars  of  the  deathbed  scene  are  likely  to  be 
of  any  interest  to  you — why,  you  're  welcome  to  'em ! ' ' 

"You're  white!"  said  the  Pressman  warmly,  licking 
his  pencil.  "What  did  your  elephant  die  of?" 

"Seasickness!"  said  the  Second  Officer  calmly. 

"I've  seen  a  few  things  worth  seeing — myself,"  said 
the  Pressman  enviously,  ' '  but  not  a  seasick  elephant. ' ' 

"With  a  professional  lady-nurse  in  attendance,"  said 
the  Second  Officer;  "all  complete  from  stem  to  stern, 
in  her  print  gown,  white  apron,  fly-away  cap-rigging, 
and  ward  shoes." 

The  Pressman  grunted,  but  not  from  lack  of  interest. 
Doubled  up  in  the  corner  of  the  smoke-room  divan,  his 
note-book  balanced  on  his  bulging  shirt-front,  he  made 
furious  notes.  The  Second  Officer  waited  until  the  pen- 
cil seemed  hungry,  and  then  fed  it  with  a  little  more  in- 
formation. 


OFF    SANDY    HOOK  5 

"When  that  girl  came  aboard  at  Liverpool  with  her 
mackintosh  and  holdall  and  little  black  shiny  bag,"  he 
went  on,  ' '  I  just  noticed  her  in  a  passing  sort  of  way  as 
a  fresh-colored,  tidy -looking  young  woman,  rather  plump 
in  the  bows,  and  with  an  air  as  though  she  meant  to  get 
her  full  money's  worth  out  of  her  eleven-pound  fare. 
But  our  cheap  tariff  had  filled  the  passenger-lists  fairly 
full,  and  I'd  a  long  score  of  things  to  attend  to.  A 
special  derrick  had  had  to  be  rigged  to  sling  the  ele- 
phant's cage  aboard,  and  a  capital  one  it  was,  of  sound 
Indian  teak  strengthened  with  steel — must  have  cost  a 
mint  of  money.  We  stowed  it,  after  a  lot  of  sweat  and 
swearing,  on  the  promenade  deck,  abaft  the  funnels, 
bolting  it  to  rings  specially  screwed  in  the  deck,  passing 
a  wire  hawser  across  the  top,  which  was  made  fast  to 
the  port  and  starboard  davits,  and  rigging  weather- 
screens  of  double  tarpaulin  to  keep  Bingo  warm  and 
dry.  The  other  beasts  we  shipped  under  the  lee  of 
the  forward  cabin  skylight ;  and  I  'd  just  got  through  the 
job  when  a  quiet  ladylike  voice  at  my  elbow  says: 

"  'If  you  please,  officer,  with  regard  to  my  patient,  I 
wish  to  know ' 

"  'Ask  the  purser,  ma'am,'  I  said,  rather  snappishly, 
for  I  was  hot  and  worried  ...  'or  the  head-stew- 
ardess. ' 

"  'I  have  asked  them  both,'  says  the  voice  in  a  calm, 
determined  way,  'and  have  been  referred  to  you.' 

"  'Well,  what  is  it?'  says  I. 

"  'By  mistake,'  says  the  young  lady — for  a  young 
lady  she  was,  and  a  hospital  nurse  besides,  neatly  rigged 
out  in  the  usual  uniform — 'by  mistake  I  have  had  al- 
lotted to  me  a  bedroom  on  the  ground-floor,  so  far  from 
my  patient  that  I  cannot  possibly  hear  him  should  he 
call  me  in  the  night.  And,'  she  went  on,  as  the  breeze 
played  with  her  white  silk  bonnet-strings  and  the  wavy 
little  kinks  of  soft  brown  hair  that  framed  her  fore- 


6  OFF    SANDY    HOOK 

head,  'and  I  want  you  to  move  me  to  the  upper  floor 
at  once. ' 

"  'You  mean  the  promenade  deck,  madam,'  says  I, 
smoothing  out  a  grin,  though  I'm  well  enough  used  to 
the  odd  bungles  land-folks  make  over  names  of  things 
at  sea. ' ' 

The  flying  pencil  stopped.  The  Pressman  looked  up, 
turning  his  shortened  cigar  between  his  teeth. 

' '  When  do  we  come  to  the  elephant  ? "  he  asked. 

' '  "We  're  at  him  now, ' '  said  the  Second  Officer.  ' '  '  You 
mean  the  promenade  deck,'  says  I.  'Does  your  patient 
occupy  one  of  the  cabins  on  the  port  or  the  starboard 
side,  and  may  I  ask  his  number  and  name?'  Then  she 
smiled  at  me  brightly,  her  eyes  and  teeth  making  a  sort 
of  flash  together.  'He  doesn't  have  a  cabin,'  says  she; 
'he  sleeps  in  a  cage.  My  patient  is  Bingo,  the  ele- 
phant!' ' 

"Great  Pierpont  Morgan!"  ejaculated  the  Pressman. 
His  previously  flying  pencil  became  almost  invisible 
from  the  extreme  rapidity  with  which  he  plied  it.  Drops 
of  perspiration  broke  out  upon  his  sallow  forehead. 
"Glory!"  he  cried.  "And  not  another  man  thought  it 
worth  while  to  run  out  and  tackle  this  wallowing  old 
tub  but  me!" 

"I  touched  my  cap,"  went  on  the  Second  Officer, 
"keeping  down  as  professionally  as  I  could  the  sur- 
prise I  felt.  ...  'Do  I  understand,  madam,'  I  asked, 
'that  you  are  the  elephant's  nurse?'  And  at  that  she 
nodded  with  another  bright  smile,  and  told  me  that 
she  was  Nurse  Amy,  of  St.  Baalam's  Nursing  Associa- 
tion, London,  specially  engaged  by  the  American  gen- 
tleman who  had  bought  the  elephant " 

"Shadland  C.  McOster,"  prompted  the  Pressman, 
without  looking  up. 

"To  attend  to  the  animal  on  the  voyage.  It  was  un- 
derstood that  if  the  principal  patient's  condition  per- 


OFF    SANDY    HOOK  7 

mitted,  Nurse  Amy  was  to  pay  the  leopards  such  atten- 
tions as  they  were  capable  of  appreciating,  but  there 
was  no  pressure  on  this  point." 

"Ohowgh!"  coughed  the  voice  outside.  "Yarr! 
Ohowgh!" 

"He  smells  the  land,  I  guess,"  said  the  Pressman. 

"Or  the  niggers,"  suggested  the  Second  Officer. 
"You  ought  to  have  heard  Bingo  when  we  were  three 
days  out  from  the  Mersey.  .  .  .  We'd  had  a  fair  wind 
and  a  smooth  sea  at  first,  and  nothing  delighted  the 
ladies  and  children  on  board  like  feeding  him  with  ap- 
ples, and  nuts,  and  biscuits,  and  things  prigged  from 
the  saloon  tables.  The  sea-air  must  have  sharpened  the 
beast's  appetite.  I  suppose,  for  that  old  trunk  of  his 
was  snorking  round  all  day,  and  the  Purser,  who  was 
naturally  wild  about  it,  said  he  must  have  put  away 
hogsheads  of  good  things  in  addition  to  his  allowance  of 
hay,  and  bread,  and  beetroot,  and  grain,  and  cabbages, 
and  sugar " 

"Was  he  ca'am  in  temper?"  asked  the  Pressman. 

"Mild  as  milk.  ...  As  kind  a  beast  as  ever 
breathed ;  and  elephants  do  a  lot  of  breathing, ' '  said  the 
Second  Officer.  "The  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  the  up- 
per-deck cabins  used  to  complain  about  his  snoring  in 
the  night;  but  as  Nurse  Amy  said,  there  are  people 
who'd  complain  about  anything.  And  some  of  'em 
didn  't  like  the  smell  of  elephant — which,  I  '11  allow,  when 
you  happened  to  get  to  wind'ard  of  Bingo,  was — 
phew!" 

"Pooty  vociferous?"  hinted  the  Pressman. 

"Until,"  went  on  the  Second  Officer,  "Nurse  Amy 
took  to  washing  him  with  scented  soap." 

The  pencil  stopped.  The  Pressman  looked  up  with 
circular  eyes.  "Scented " 

"Soap,"  said  the  Second  Officer.  "No  expense  was 
to  be  spared — and  we'd  several  cases  of  a  special  toilet 


8  OFF    SANDY    HOOK 

and  complexion  article  on  board.  By  the  living  Harry ! 
if  you'd  seen  that  elephant  standing  up  over  his  morn- 
ing tub  of  hot  water,  swabbing  away  at  himself  with 
a  deck-sponge  Nurse  Amy  had  soaped  for  him,  and  then 
squirting  the  water  over  himself  to  rinse  off  the  soap, 
you'd  have  believed  in  the  intelligence  of  animals.  The 
sight  drew  like  a  pantomime.  .  .  .  But  by  the  sixth 
day  out  Bingo  had  given  up  all  interest  in  his  own  ap- 
pearance. The  weather  was  squally,  a  bit  of  a  sea  got 
up,  hardly  a  passenger  put  in  an  appearance  at  the 
saloon  tables,  and  Bingo  only  shook  his  ears  when  the 
bugle  blew,  and  turned  away  from  his  morning  hay- 
stack and  mound  of  cabbages  with  disgust.  Nurse  Amy 
got  him  to  eat  some  biscuits  and  drink  a  bucket  of 
Bovril,  but  you  could  see  he  was  only  doing  it  to  oblige 
her.  '  Oh,  come,  cheer  up ! '  she  said  in  a  brisk,  profes- 
sional way.  'You'll  get  your  sea-legs  on  directly  and 
the  officer  says  we're  having  a  wonderfully  smooth  pas- 
sage, considering  the  time  of  the  year. '  But  Bingo  only 
sighed,  and  two  tears  trickled  out  of  his  little  red  eyes, 
as  he  swayed  from  side  to  side.  'He'll  be  worse  before 
he 's  better, '  says  I ;  for  somehow  I  was  generally  about 
when  Nurse  Amy  was  looking  after  her  big  charge. 
'He'll  be  worse  before  he's  better,'  and  he  was." 

The  Pressman's  face  was  streaked  and  shiny,  his  hair 
lay  glued  to  his  brow.  The  pencil  went  on,  devouring 
page  after  page. 

"Nurse  Amy,  luckily  for  her  patient,  was  not  upset 
by  the  pitching  of  the  vessel,  for  it  blew  half  a  gale 
steady  from  the  sou '-west,  and  the  old  Centipede  dipped 
her  nose  pretty  frequently.  Nurse  was  as  busy  as  a 
bee  endeavoring  by  every  means  she  could  devise  or 
adopt  from  the  suggestions  of  the  stewardesses,  who 
showed  a  good  deal  of  interest  in  her  and  her  charge, 
to  alleviate  the  sufferings  of  Bingo.  I  have  seen  that 
little  woman  stand  for  an  hour  on  the  wet  planking, 


OFF    SANDY    HOOK  9 

holding  a  six-foot  deck-swab  soaked  with  eau-de-Cologne 
to  Bingo's  forehead.  ..." 

The  Pressman  jotted  down,  breathing  heavily.  "Deck- 
swab  soaked  in  eau-de-Cologne  ..."  he  muttered. 
"Must  have  cost  slathers  of  money,  I  reckon " 

"No  expense  was  to  be  spared,"  the  Second  Officer 
reminded  him  gently.  "As  for  the  brandy,  Martell's 
Three  Star,  he  must  have  put  away  a  dozen  bottles  a 
day." 

"No  blamed  wonder  his  head  ached!"  said  the  Press- 
man, moistening  his  own  dry  lips. 

"Except  an  occasional  bucket  of  arrowroot  with  port 
wine  and  a  tin  or  so  of  cuddy  biscuits,  the  animal  would 
take  no  other  nourishment  whatever,"  continued  the 
Second  Officer.  "As  he  grew  weaker  and  weaker,  it 
was  touching  to  see  the  way  in  which  he  clung  to  Nurse 
Amy." 

"Clung  to  her?"  the  Pressman  wrote,  marking  the 
words  for  a  headline. 

"Fact,"  said  the  Second  Officer.  "He  would  put  his 
trunk  round  her  waist,  and  lay  his  head  on  her  shoulder 
as  she  stood  on  a  ladder  lashed  against  the  side  of  his 
cage.  And  he  would  hang  out  his  forefoot  to  have  his 
pulse  felt,  quite  in  a  Christian  style.  Then  when  Nurse 
Amy  wanted  to  take  his  temperature,  the  docile  brute 
would  curl  up  his  fire-hose — I  mean  his  trunk — and  open 
his  mouth,  so  that  the  instrument  might  be  comfortably 
placed  under  his  tongue." 

"By  gings,  sir,  this  story  is  going  to  knock  corners 
off  creation!"  gasped  the  Pressman,  pausing  to  wipe 
his  face  with  a  slightly  smeary  cuff.  ' '  An  elephant  that 
understood  the  use  of  the  therm — blame  it!  that  beast 
robbed  some  man  of  a  fortune  when  he  passed  in  his 
checks ! ' ' 

"We  lost  so  many  of  the  ordinary  kind  of  instrument 
in  this  way/'  went  on  the  Second  Officer,  almost  pen- 


10  OFF    SANDY    HOOK 

sively,  "that  at  last  Nurse  Amy  was  obliged  to  fall  back 
upon  the  large  thermometer  and  barometer  combined 
that  usually  hung  in  the  first  saloon.  But  it  recorded, 
to  our  sorrow,  no  improvement.  The  mercury  steadily 
sank,  and  it  became  plain  to  Nurse  Amy's  professional 
eye  that  her  patient  was  not  long  for  this  world." 

"Say,  do  you  believe  elephants  have  souls?"  queried 
the  Pressman.  The  Second  Officer  deigned  no  reply. 

"She  could  not  leave  him  a  moment;  he  trumpeted 
so  awfully  when  he  saw  her  quit  his  side.  I  forgot  to 
tell  you  that  from  the  moment  he  first  felt  himself 
attacked  by  sea-sickness  his  bellows  of  rage  and  agony 
were  frightful  to  hear.  The  other  animals  became  ex- 
cited by  them;  they  roared  and  snarled  without  cessa- 
tion." 

"Raised  general  hell,"  said  the  Pressman,  "with  trim- 
mings." But  he  wrote  down  with  a  sign  that  meant 
leaded  spaces  and  giant  capitals: 

"PANDEMONIUM  IN  MID-OCEAN!" 

"Nobody  on  board  got  a  wink  of  sleep,"  said  the 
Second  Officer — "that  is,  unless  the  devoted  Nurse  Amy 
was  by  the  sufferer's  side.  Towards  the  end,  when,  ex- 
hausted by  days  and  nights  of  arduous  nursing,  the 
devoted  girl  had  retired  to  her  deck-cabin  to  snatch  a 
few  moments  of  much-needed  rest,  the  entire  crew  vied 
with  each  other  in  efforts  to  pacify  Bingo,  without  the 
slightest  effect.  When  they  tried  to  put  his  feet  in  hot 
water  he  mashed  the  ship's  buckets  like  so  many  goose- 
berries, and  shot  the  Purser  down  with  half  a  trunkful 
of  hot  cocoa,  which  had  been  offered  as  a  last  resource. 
But  on  Nurse  Amy's  appearing  he  grew  pacified,  and 
from  that  moment  until  the  end  the  heroic  woman  never 
left  his  side.  I  begged  her  to  consider  herself  and  those 
dear  to  her,"  said  the  Second  Officer,  with  a  little 


OFF    SANDY    HOOK  11 

tremble  in  his  voice,  "but  she  only  smiled — a  worn  kind 
of  smile — and  said  that  duty  must  be  considered  first. 
I  won't  deny  it,"  said  the  Second  Officer,  openly  pro- 
ducing a  very  white  pocket-handkerchief  and  unfolding 
it.  "I  kissed  that  woman 's  hand  as  though  she  had  been 
the  Queen."  He  concealed  his  face  with  the  handker- 
chief and  coughed  rather  loudly. 

"The  Rude  Shellback  Touched  to  the  Quick,"  wrote 
the  Pressman.  "He  Sheds  Tears."  "Get  on  with  the 
death-scene,  sir,  if  you  don't  object!"  he  said,  breath- 
ing through  his  nose  excitedly.  ' '  If  that  elephant  asked 
for  a  minister,  I'd  not  be  surprised!" 

' '  He  did  make  his  will,  after  a  fashion, ' '  said  the  nar- 
rator. ' '  You  see,  during  the  convulsive  struggles  I  have 
described,  when  he  broke  off  his  right  tusk — didn't  I 
mention  that?" 

"No!"  denied  the  Pressman. 

"He  broke  it,  anyhow,  right  off  short,  as  a  boy  might 
snap  a  carrot,"  said  the  Second  Officer.  "There  it  lay, 
among  the  litter,  in  the  bottom  of  his  cage.  He  had 
suddenly  ceased  trumpeting,  and  a  deathly  silence  had 
fallen  on  all  creation,  one  would  have  said.  The  vessel 
still  rolled  a  bit,  but  the  wind  had  fallen,  and  the  sun 
was  going  down  like  a  blot  of  fire,  on  the " 

"Western  horizon/'  wrote  the  Pressman. 

"Nurse  Amy,  from  her  ladder,  still  rendered  the  last 
offices  of  human  kindness  to  the  sinking  animal,  spong- 
ing his  forehead  with  ice-water  and  fanning  him  with 
a  bellows.  As  she  whispered  to  me  that  the  end  was 
near,  Bingo  opened  his  eyes.  With  an  expiring  effort 
he  lifted  the  broken  tusk  from  the  bottom  of  the  cage, 
dropped  it  on  the  deck  at  his  faithful  Nurse's  feet, 
uttered  a  heavy  groan,  threw  up  his  trunk,  sank  gently 
forward  upon  his  massive  knees,  and  died ! ' ' 

"The  editor  of  the  opposition  paper  will  do  another 
die  when  he  runs  his  eye  over  the  Teller  to-morrow 


12  OFF    SANDY    HOOK 

morning,"  said  the  Pressman,  joyfully  smacking  the 
rubber  band  round  the  filled  notebook.  "And  the  port- 
rail  got  carried  away  when  you  yanked  the  body  over- 
board?" 

"We  couldn't  stuff  him,"  said  the  Second  Officer 
with  a  sigh.  "As  for  preserving  him  in  spirits,  we 
hadn't  enough  spirits  left  to  think  of  it.  We  rigged 
a  special  derrick,  and  heaved  Bingo  overboard,  carry- 
ing away,  as  you  have  guessed,  the  port-rail  in  the 
operation.  As  Bingo's  tremendous  carcass  rose  and 
floated  buoyantly  away  to  leeward,  back  and  head  well 
above  the  water,  and  the  two  great  ears  resting  flat 
upon  the  surface  like  gigantic  lily-pads,  Nurse  Amy 
uttered  a  faint  cry  and  swooned  in  my  arms." 

' '  Some  folks  get  all  the  luck ! ' '  commented  the  Press- 
man, who,  having  filled  his  book,  was  now  jotting  down 
notes  upon  his  left  cuff. 

"You've  not  much  to  complain  of,  it  strikes  me!" 
observed  the  Second  Officer,  with  a  glance  at  the 
crammed  notebook. 

"I  guess  that's  true!"  said  the  Pressman,  with  a 
sigh  of  satisfaction.  "Now,  all  I  want  is  a  photograph 
or  a  sketch  of  that  splendid  heroine  of  a  girl,  and  the 
honor  of  shaking  her  hand,  and  telling  her  she  deserves 
to  be  an  American — and  I'd  not  trade  places  with  the 
President. ' ' 

The  Second  Officer  appeared  to  be  struggling  with 
some  emotion.  The  muscles  of  his  mouth  worked  violent- 
ly. He  reddened  through  the  red,  and  suspicious  moist- 
ure shone  in  his  eyes.  One  by  one  the  members  of  the 
silent  but  not  unappreciative  audience  of  male  passen- 
gers that  had  gradually  gathered  within  earshot  of  the 
Second  Officer  and  his  victim,  manifested  the  same  symp- 
toms. And  glancing  for  the  first  time  at  those  listening 
faces,  and  observing  the  identical  expression  stamped 
upon  each,  the  Pressman,  encircled  by  wet,  crinkled  eyes, 


OFF    SANDY    HOOK  13 

and  cheerfully-curled-back  lips,  fringed  with  teeth  in  all 
stages  of  preservation,  grasped  the  conviction  that  he 
had  been  had.  And  at  this  crucial  moment  the  hatch- 
door  of  the  smoke-room  rolled  back  in  its  brass  coam- 
ings, and  a  pointed  gray  beard  and  kindly  keen  eyes, 
sheltered  by  the  peak  of  a  gold-laced  cap,  appeared 
in  the  aperture. 

"New  York  Harbor,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Captain 
genially.  "We're  running  into  the  docks  now,  and  the 
Custom  House  officers  will  board  us  directly.  ...  I 
shouldn't  wonder,"  he  continued,  as  the  majority  of  the 
occupants  of  the  smoke-room  one  by  one  glided  away, 
' '  if  the  newspapers  made  a  story  out  of  our  missing  port- 
rail!" 

"Permit  me  to  introduce  myself  as  a  reporter  of  the 
N'York  Teller/'  said  the  young  gentleman  in  tweeds, 
as  he  rose  and  touched  his  hat.  "Perhaps,  sir,  you 
would  favor  me  with  the  facts  in  connection  with  the 
occurrence  ? ' ' 

"Haven't  you  had  it  from  Murchison?  Why,  Mur- 

chison "  the  Captain  was  beginning,  when  with  a 

choking  snort  the  Second  Officer  rushed  from  the  smoke- 
room.  "Though  there's  nothing  to  tell,  Mr.  Reporter, 
worth  hearing.  A  derrick-chain  broke  at  Southampton 
Docks,  and  a  case  of  agricultural  machine-parts  did  the 
damage.  We  temporarily  repaired  with  some  iron  pip- 
ing, and  a  length  of  wire  hawser;  but,  of  course,  it 
shows  badly,  and  suggests " 

"A  collision!"  said  a  smiling  stranger. 

"Or  an  elephant,"  said  another. 

"Yarr!"  proclaimed  the  horrible  voice  outside. 
"Ohowgh!  Yarr!" 

"I  understand,"  said  the  Pressman  with  an  effort, 
"that  the  elephant  emanated  from  the  teeming  brain 
of  Mr.  Murchison.  But  the  leopard — there  is  a  leopard, 
I  surmise,  if  hearing  goes  for  evidence?" 


14  OFF    SANDY    HOOK 

The  Captain's  excellent  teeth  showed  under  his  gray 
mustache.  "That  noise,  you  mean?"  he  exclaimed. 
.  .  .  "Oh,  that's  one  of  our  electric  air-pumps,  for  forc- 
ing air  into  the  lower-deck  storage  chambers,  you  know. 
She 's  out  of  gear,  and  lets  us  know  it  in  that  way.  Must 
have  her  seen  to  at  New  York.  Take  a  drink,  won 't  you  ? 
Come,  gentlemen,  order  what  you  please." 

"Whisky,  square,"  murmured  the  Pressman,  as  the 
long,  smooth  glide  of  the  liner  was  checked,  the  engines 
throbbed  and  stopped,  and  the  dull  roar  of  the  docks 
pressed  upon  listening  ears.  He  drank,  and  as  the  fluid 
traversed  the  usual  channel,  his  eye  grew  brighter.  .  .  . 
"Say,  Captain,"  he  asked,  "do  you  know  where  your 
Second  Officer  was  raised?" 

"Murchison  comes,  I  believe,  from  Yorkshire,"  said 
the  Captain.  "Hey,  Murchison,  isn't  that  the  place?" 

' '  I  am  not  acquainted  with  the  geology  of  Yorkshire, ' ' 
observed  the  Pressman,  as  he  passed  the  Second  Officer 
on  his  way  to  the  smoke-room ;  ' '  but  the  soil  grows  good 
liars!  So  long!" 


GEMINI 

AN    EMBARRASSMENT   OF    CHOICE 

To  Captain  Galahad  Ranking,  grilling  over  his  Mus- 
ketry-Instructorship  at  Hounslow  one  arid  July,  came 
a  square  lilac  envelope,  adressed  in  a  sprawling  hand, 
with  plenty  of  violet  ink.  The  missive  smelt  of  Rhine 
violets.  It  bore  a  monogram,  the  initials  "L.  K."  fan- 
tastically intertwined,  and  was,  in  fact,  an  invitation 
from  his  affectionate  cousin  Laura,  dated  from  a  pleasant 
country  mansion  situate  amid  green  lawns  and  blushing 
rose-gardens  on  the  "Werkshire  reaches  of  the  Thames. 

Laura  was  not  Galahad's  cousin  by  blood,  but  by  mar- 
riage. Laura  was  the  still  young  and  attractive  widow 
of  Thomson  Kingdom,  once  a  stout  man  on  the  Stock 
Exchange,  remarkable  for  a  head  of  very  upright  gray 
hair  and  a  startling  taste  in  printed  linen.  Pigs  and 
peaches  were  his  pet  hobbies,  and  the  apoplectic  seizure 
from  which  he  never  rallied  was  induced  by  a  weakness 
in  "the  City"  caused  by  unprecedentedly  heavy  selling- 
orders  from  a  nervous  north-eastern  European  capital, 
about  the  time  of  the  entente  cordiale.  So  the  bloom 
was  barely  off  Laura's  crepe,  and  the  new  black  gloves 
purchased  by  Galahad  to  grace  his  kinsman's  obsequies 
had  not  done  duty  at  another  funeral.  The  scrawly 
postscript  to  her  letter  said:  "I  want  to  consult  you 
very  particularly,  in  the  most  absolute  confidence,  upon 
a  matter  affecting  my  whole  future." 

Galahad  Ranking,  Junior  Captain,  Fourth  Battalion 
Royal  Deershire  Regiment,  wrinkled  up  his  freckled 

15 


16  GEMINI 

little  countenance  into  queer  puckers,  and  rubbed  his 
bristly  cinnamon-colored  hair,  already  getting  thin  on 
the  summit  of  his  skull,  as  he  puzzled  the  brain  within 
that  receptacle  as  to  the  possible  meaning  of  Laura's 
impassioned  appeal.  He  was  a  small  man,  whose  de- 
mure and  spinster-like  demeanor  led  new  acquaintances 
to  ask  him  plumply  how  on  earth  he  had  managed  to 
get  his  D.S.O. 

"There  were  chances,"  he  would  reply  to  these  quer- 
ists, "to  be  had  out  there,"  waving  his  hand  vaguely 
in  the  direction  of  South  Africa,  "and  I  saw  one  of 
them  and  took  it — that's  all." 

Others  might  pump  him  more  successfully  to  the 
effect  that  he — Galahad  Ranking — was  a  poor  devil  of 
a  militiaman  attached  to  the  Royal  Deershires;  that  a 
small  detachment  of  that  well-known  territorial  regi- 
ment, garrisoned  in  a  beastly  small  tin-pot  fort  on  the 
Springbok  River,  Eastern  Transvaal,  were  by  Boers  be- 
sieged ;  that  relief  was  urgently  necessary ;  and  that 
"one  of  the  fellows  went  and  brought  up  Kitchener." 
Said  fellow  admitted  upon  further  cross-examination  to 
have  been  himself.  But  for  such  details  as  that  the 
bringing  up  involved  a  six-mile  run  in  scorching  sun 
over  tangled  bush  veldt,  crossing  the  enemy's  lines,  be- 
ing sniped  at  by  Boer  sharpshooters  and  chased  by  Boer 
pickets,  the  curious  must  refer  to  despatches.  Stam- 
peding Army  mules  would  not  trample  the  truth  out 
of  the  man. 

He  wrung  half-hearted  leave  of  absence  from  the 
powers  that  were,  and  his  orderly  packed  the  battered 
tin  suit-case  and  the  Gladstone  bag  that  had  spent  three 
days  at  the  bottom  of  a  water-hole,  and,  having  had  its 
numerous  labels  soaked  off,  bore  a  painfully  leprous 
appearance. 

He  found  Laura's  omnibus  automobile,  with  its  lug- 
gage tender,  waiting  at  Cholsford  Junction,  and  smiled 


GEMINI  17 

his  dry  little  smile,  mentally  comparing  the  dimensions 
of  the  vehicle  with  the  size  of  the  guest.  The  suit-case 
and  the  Gladstone  bag  made  a  poor  show;  but  there 
were  other  things  to  come:  huge  packages  from  the 
Stores,  and  a  sea-weedy  hamper  from  Great  Fishby,  and 
some  cases  of  champagne  with  the  label  of  a  first-class 
Regent  Street  firm.  ' '  Poor  Kingdom 's  wine-merchants ! ' ' 
Ranking  said  to  himself,  and  he  blinked  in  a  bewil- 
dered way  at  a  band-box  of  mammoth  proportions  and 
three  dressmakers'  boxes  of  stout  cardboard  with  tin 
corners,  their  covers  bearing  the  flourishing  signature 
of  Babin  et  Cie.  Because,  you  know,  Laura's  bereave- 
ment was  so  very  recent,  and  bachelors  of  Galahad's 
type  have  a  somewhat  exaggerated  notion  of  the  extent 
to  which  conjugal  mourners  are  expected  to  bewail  them- 
selves. However,  even  a  widow  requires  clothes.  This 
handsome  concession  to  feminine  idiosyncrasy  made, 
Galahad  ousted  Laura 's  chauffeur  from  the  driving-seat, 
and,  assuming  the  steering-wheel,  was  reaching  for  the 
starting-lever  when  the  chauffeur  stopped  him  with — 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  there's  a  gentleman  to  fetch." 

"A  visitor  to  The  Rodelands?"  Galahad  asked,  with 
furrows  of  surprise  forming  below  his  hat-brim. 

The  mechanic,  a  gloomy  young  man  in  a  gold-banded 
cap,  with  a  weakness  for  wearing  waterproofs  in  the 
driest  weather,  replied,  without  a  groom's  alertness  or 
a  groom's  civility: 

"It's  a  gentleman  staying  at  Eyot  Cottage.  .  .  ." 
Adding,  as  Galahad  faintly  recalled  the  creeper-covered 
cot  in  question,  modestly  perched  on  the  edge  of  a 
marshy  lawn  running  down  to  the  river,  and  usually 
let  by  the  landlord  of  the  local  hotel  to  honeymooning 
couples :  ' '  And  we  usually  give  him  a  lift. ' ' 

As  the  chauffeur  spoke,  the  gentleman  emerged  from 
the  dim,  echoing  archway  through  which  the  down  plat- 
form disgorged.  The  stranger  was  young — Galahad, 


18  GEMINI 

who  was  middle-aged,  saw  that  at  a  glance — and  fair, 
while  Galahad  was  sandy.  He  wore  a  suit  of  gray 
tweeds  too  short  in  the  sleeves  and  trouser-legs,  and  his 
cherubically  pink  countenance,  adorned  with  large, 
round,  china-blue  eyes  and  a  little  flaxen  mustache,  was 
carried  at  an  altitude  which  would  have  been  disconcert- 
ing to  a  Lifeguardsman  of  six  feet  high,  and  was 
simply  maddening  to  Galahad,  who  could  only  be  cat- 
egorized as  small.  We  are  all  human,  and  Galahad  was 
secretly  gratified  to  observe  that  the  young  giant's 
shoulders  boasted  a  graceful  droop,  and  that  his  chest 
was  somewhat  narrow. 

' '  Hullo,  Watson ! ' '  observed  the  tall  young  gentleman, 
condescendingly;  and  Watson  smiled  faintly  and  actu- 
ally touched  his  cap  as  the  newcomer  favored  Galahad 
with  a  long  and  round-eyed  stare. 

"I  believe  you  are  coming  with  us?"  said  Galahad, 
raising  his  hat  with  punctilious  politeness. 

"Not  inside,  thanks,"  was  the  long-legged  young 
stranger's  reply.  He  stared  harder  than  ever,  and 
Watson  murmured  in  Galahad's  ear  that  the  gentleman 
usually  drove. 

"Does  he?"  ejaculated  the  astonished  Galahad. 

A  man  may  hold  the  rank  of  captain  in  one  of  his 
Majesty's  territorial  Regiments,  and  yet  be  shy;  may 
have  earned  the  right  to  adorn  his  thorax  with  the  D.S.O., 
and  yet  be  bashful;  may  be  a  more  than  efficient  in- 
structor in  Musketry,  and  yet  shrink  from  the  gratuitous 
schooling  of  underbred  youth  in  the  amenities  of  good 
breeding.  In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  relate  it,  Gala- 
had was  stowed  in  the  omnibus  body  of  the  ' '  Kunhard ' ' 
where,  a  very  little  kernel  in  a  very  roomy  shell,  he 
rattled  about  as  the  familiar  landscape  reeled  giddily 
by  at  the  will  and  pleasure  of  the  long-legged  young 
gentleman,  who  might  be  described  as  the  kind  of 
driver  that  takes  risks.  A  peculiarly  steep  and  curving 


GEMINI  19 

hill  announced  by  signboards  lettered,  in  appropriate 
crimson,  "Dangerous!"  afforded  facilities  for  the  exer- 
cise of  his  peculiar  talent  which  temporarily  deprived 
the  inside  passenger  of  breath. 

The  river  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  and  the  dwell- 
ing of  Mrs.  Kingdom,  described  in  the  local  guide  as 
"an  elegant  riparian  villa,"  sat  in  its  green  meadows 
and  sunny  croquet  lawns  and  rose-trellised  gardens, 
on  the  other  side. 

The  automobile  swirled  in  at  the  lodge-gates,  stopped, 
and  Galahad  got  out,  welcomed  by  the  joyful  barking 
of  Dinmonts,  fox-terriers,  pugs,  and  poodles. 

Knee-deep  in  dogs,  the  little  man  responded  to  the 
respectful  greeting  of  Laura's  butler,  a  meek,  gray- 
faced,  little,  elderly  personage  with  a  frill  of  white  whis- 
kers akin  to  the  hirsute  adornments  of  the  rare  variety 
of  the  howling  ape.  Then  the  drawing-room  door  swung 
open,  letting  out  an  avalanche  of  Pomeranians  and 
some  Persian  cats ;  Laura  rose  from  a  sofa  and  advanced 
with  a  gushful  greeting.  Her  outstretched  hands  were 
grasped  by  Galahad;  he  was  tinglingly  conscious  that 
her  widow's  weeds  were  eminently  becoming. 

"Dear  Captain  Banking,  how  sweet  of  you  to  run 
down!"  Laura  cooed.  The  flash  of  admiration  in  Gala- 
had's weary  gray  eyes  gave  her  sugared  assurance  that 
she  was  looking  her  best;  his  ardent  squeeze  confirmed 
the  look. 

"You  used  to  call  me  by  my  Christian  name,"  he 
was  saying,  with  a  little  undulating  wobble  of  sentiment 
in  his  voice.  Then  his  glance  went  past  Mrs.  Kingdom, 
and  his  lean  under- jaw  dropped.  The  long-legged  gentle- 
man in  gray  tweed,  who  had  driven,  or  rather  hustled, 
him  from  the  station,  was  sitting  on  the  sofa  in  a  suit 
of  blue  serge.  No,  Galahad  was  not  mistaken.  There 
were  the  long  legs,  the  champagne-bottle  shoulders,  the 
china-blue  eyes,  and  the  little  flaxen  mustache.  He 


20  GEMINI 

did  not  look  so  pink,  that  was  all.  And  when  Laura, 
with  a  nervous  giggle,  introduced  him  as  Mr.  Lasher, 
he  began  getting  up  from  the  sofa  as  though  he  never 
would  have  done. 

' '  How  do  ? "  he  said,  when  his  yellow  head  had  soared 
to  the  ceiling. 

"Met  you  before,"  said  Galahad  with  some  terseness. 
"And  you  frightened  me  abominably  by  the  way  you 
scorched  down  Pennif ord  Hill. ' ' 

The  long-legged  young  man  stared  with  circular  blue 
eyes.  Laura  burst  into  a  peal  of  rippling  laughter, 
which  struck  Galahad  as  being  forced  and  beside  the 
point. 

' '  My  dear  Galahad, ' '  Mrs.  Kingdom  cried,  ' '  you  must 
have  met  Brosy!  This  is  Dosy,"  she  added,  as  though 
all  were  now  clear,  and  welcomed  with  a  perfect  feu  de 
joie  of  giggles  the  entrance  of  the  veritable  and  origi- 
nal young  man  in  gray  tweeds  who  had  driven  the  auto- 
mobile, and  now  came  strolling  into  the  drawing-room. 
Then  she  introduced  the  pair  formally  to  Captain  Rank- 
ing as  Mr.  Theodosius  and  Mr.  Ambrose  Lasher,  and 
rustled  away  to  pour  out  tea,  leaving  Galahad  in  a  jaun- 
diced frame  of  mind.  For  one  thing,  he  hated  to  be 
mystified;  for  another,  being  an  ordinary,  though  he- 
roic, human  being,  he  had  taken  at  the  first  moment 
of  encounter  a  singularly  ardent  and  sincere  dislike  to 
the  "long-legged,  blue-eyed  young  bounder,"  as  he  men- 
tally termed  Mr.  Brosy  Lasher;  and  the  discovery  that 
the  object  of  his  loathing  existed  in  duplicate  was  not 
a  welcome  one.  He  was  dry,  stiff,  and  jerky  in  his 
responses  to  the  loud  and  patronizing  advances  of  the 
two  Lashers.  Fortunately  the  twin  young  gentlemen 
accepted  as  admiration,  what  was,  in  fact,  the  opposite 
sentiment.  They  had  been  used  to  a  good  deal  of  this 
since  the  first  moment  of  their  simultaneous  entrance 
upon  this  mundane  stage,  and  they  were  twenty-six. 


GEMINI  21 

"It  is  so  sad,"  Laura  said  in  confidential  aside  to 
Galahad.  "They  have  lost  both  parents,  and  have 
hardly  a  penny  in  the  world."  She  raised  and  crumpled 
her  still  pretty  eyebrows  with  the  old  infantile  air  of 
appeal.  "Two  such  delightful  boys,  and  so  handsome! 
.  .  .  though  to  my  eye  Brosy  's  nose  is  less  purely  Greek 
in  outline  than  Dosy's.  And  they  were  educated  at  a 
public  school,  with  .every  advantage  that  a  rich  man 's 
sons  might  naturally  expect.  But,  of  course,  you  rec- 
ognized the  cachet  of  Eton  at  once?" 

' '  I  notice, ' '  said  Ranking  drily,  ' '  that  they  both  leave 
the  lower  button  of  their  waistcoats  undone,  and  call 
men  whom  they  don't  like  'scugs.'  '  His  quiet  eye 
dwelt  with  dubious  tenderness  upon  the  Messrs.  Lasher, 
who  were  romping  with  the  dogs  upon  the  sofas,  and 
devouring  cake  and  strawberries  with  infantile  greed. 
' '  I  have  heard  of  the  Eton  manner,  of  course, ' '  he  added, 
"and  I  meet  a  good  many  Eton-bred  men;  but  I  can't 
say  that  these  young  fellows  have  any — any  special  char- 
acteristics in  common  with — ah — those." 

"They  belong  to  a  grand  old  family,"  Laura  con- 
tinued, with  an  air  of  proprietorship  that  puzzled  Gala- 
had. "The  Lashers  of  Dropshire,  you  know — quite  his- 
torical. And  their  father  ran  through  everything  be- 
fore they  came  of  age.  So  thoughtless,  wasn't  it?  And 
now  they  are  looking  round  for  an  opening  in  life,  and 
really,  they  tell  me,  it  is  dreadfully  difficult  to  find." 

"I  rather  imagined  as  much,"  said  Galahad,  making 
a  little  point  of  sarcasm  all  to  himself,  and  secretly 
smiling  over  it. 

"I  wonder  if  you  could  suggest  anything;  you  are 
always  so  helpful,"  Laura  went  on.  "That  they  must 
be  together,  of  course,  goes  without  saying.  And  that, 
of  course,  increases  the  difficulty.  But  nobody  could 
be  so  inhuman  as  to  part  twins. ' '  Her  lips  quivered,  and 
her  eyes  grew  misty  with  unshed  tears. 


22  GEMINI 

"My  dear  Laura,"  expostulated  the  puzzled  Galahad, 
"you  talk  as  though  these  two  young  men  were  six 
years  old  instead  of  six-and-twenty. " 

' '  How  changed  you  are ! ' '  Laura  blinked  away  a  tear. 
"You  used  to  understand  me  so  much  better  in  the  old 
days.  Of  course,  they  are  grown  up,  that  is  plain  to 
the  meanest  capacity.  But  they  have  such  boyish,  charm- 
ing, confiding  natures.  .  .  .  Toto  will  bite,  Brosy,  if 
you  hold  him  in  the  air  by  the  tail !  .  .  .  that  a  woman 
like  myself  ...  If  you  would  like  some  more  cherry 
cake,  Dosy,  do  ring  the  bell !  .  .  .  a  woman  like  myself, 
married  at  eighteen  to  a  man  true  and  noble  if  you  will, 
but  incapable  of  awakening  the  deeper  chords  of  pas- 
sion and  ...  Of  course,  you  are  both  going  to  dine 
here  and  help  me  to  entertain  Captain  Ranking!  .  .  . 
denied  the  happiness  of  being  a  mother" — Laura 
drooped  her  eyes  and  bit  her  lip,  and  blushed  slightly — 
"must  naturally  find  their  company  a  great  resource. 
And  the  distant  cousin  with  whom  they  are  staying, 
a  Mrs.  Le  Bacon  Chalmers,  who  has  taken  Eyot  Cottage 
for  the  summer  months,  knows  this  and  lends  them  to 
me  as  often  as  I  like." 

"Upon  my  word,  she  is  uncommonly  kind!"  said 
Galahad,  with  emphasis  stronger  than  Laura's  italics. 

"Yes,  isn't  she?"  responded  Laura,  whose  sense  of 
humor  was  obscured  by  predilection.  "They  ride  and' 
drive  the  horses,  and  give  Holt  and  the  gardeners  ad- 
vice, and  they  exercise  the  automobiles,  and  run  the 
electric  launch  about,  and  play  tennis  and  croquet " 

' '  And  the  devil  generally ! ' '  were  the  words  that  Gala- 
had bit  off  and  gulped  down. 

He  was  very  quiet  at  dinner,  sitting  in  the  deceased 
Kingdom's  place  at  the  foot  of  the  table.  And  Dosy 
and  Brosy  were  very  loud  and  very  large,  though  look- 
ing, it  must  be  confessed,  exceedingly  well  in  evening 
garb.  They  made  themselves  very  much  at  home  upon 


GEMINI  23 

Laura's  right  and  left  hand,  recommending  certain 
dishes  to  each  other,  criticizing  more,  ravaging  the  bon- 
bons, reveling  in  the  dessert,  calling,  with  artless  airs 
of  connoisseurship,  for  special  wines  laid  down  by  the 
noble  man  who  yet  had  not  known  how  to  awaken 
the  deeper  chords  of  passion. 

' '  Gad !  what  a  pair  of  hawbucks ! ' '  Galahad  mentally 
ejaculated  as  the  servants  ran  about  like  distracted  ants, 
and  Laura  and  Laura's  inseparable  though  elderly  com- 
panion-friend, Miss  Glidding,  vied  with  each  other  in 
encouraging  Theodosius  and  Ambrose  to  renewed  at- 
tacks upon  the  strawberries  and  peaches. 

Left  alone  with  Dosy  and  Brosy,  he  submitted  to  be 
patronized,  offered  cigars  he  had  chosen,  recommended 
to  try  liqueurs  with  whose  liverish  and  headachy  quali- 
ties he  had  been  acquainted  of  old. 

They  walked  with  the  ladies  in  the  dewy  rose-gardens 
after  dinner,  and  as  Galahad  paused  to  light  a  cigar, 
behold,  he  was  left  alone.  Laura  with  Brosy,  Miss  Glid- 
ding  (who  looked  her  best  by  bat-light)  with  Dosy,  had 
vanished  in  the  shadowy  windings  of  the  trellis-walks 
and  arcades.  And  Captain  Ranking,  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders, picked  a  half -seen  Niphetos,  glimmering  among  the 
wet,  shining  leaves,  and  walked  back  to  the  smoking- 
room,  wondering  why  on  earth  Laura  had  dragged  him 
down  where  he  seemed  least  to  be  wanted.  What  was 
the  matter  "affecting  her  whole  future"  upon  which 
she  required  advice?  His  heart  gave  a  sickening  little 
jog  as  he  realized  that  the  future  of  Dosy,  or  possibly 
of  Brosy,  might  also  be  involved.  True,  Laura  was 
thirty-nine ;  but  what  are  years  when  the  heart  is  young  ? 
Galahad  asked  himself,  as  peal  after  peal  of  the  widow 's 
laughter  broke  the  silence  of  the  scented  night.  Other 
mental  interrogations  fretted  his  aching  brain.  What 
must  the  servants  not  have  thought  and  said?  What 
would  the  neighbors  say  ?  What  would  the  County  think 


24  GEMINI 

of  such  sportive,  not  to  say  frivolous,  conduct  on  the 
part  of  a  widow  but  recently  emancipated  from  weepers, 
whose  handkerchiefs  were  still  bordered  with  the  inch- 
deep  inky  deposit  of  conjugal  woe  ? 

Kingdom  was  an  easy-going,  level-headed  man,  Gala- 
had admitted,  biting  at  one  of  the  deceased's  Havanas 
and  frowning;  "but  he  would  have  raised  the  Devil 
over  this.  Possibly  he's  doing  it." 

The  portrait  of  Mr.  Kingdom  over  the  mantelshelf 
of  the  smoking-room  seemed  to  scowl  confirmatively. 
The  servants  were  all  in  bed,  the  promenaders  in  the 
garden  showed  no  signs  of  returning.  Galahad  shrugged 
his  little  shoulders,  and  went  away  to  bed  in  a  charming, 
drum-windowed,  chintz-hung  bower  over  the  front  porch. 
And  just  as  his  little  cropped  head  plumped  down  on 
the  pillow  it  was  electrically  jolted  up  again.  Laura 
was  saying  good-night  in  the  porch  to  one — or  was  it 
both? — of  the  infernal  twins.  And  before  the  hall-door 
clashed  they  had  promised  to  come  over  to  lunch  to- 
morrow. Confound  them!  it  was  to-morrow  now. 

One  has  only  to  add  that  when,  after  exhausting 
watches,  slumber  visited  Galahad's  eyelids,  the  twins 
in  maddening  iteration  played  dominoes  throughout  his 
dreams,  to  convince  the  reader  that  they  had  thoroughly 
got  upon  his  nerves. 

Laura,  looking  wonderfully  fresh  and  young  in  a  lace 
morning  neglige  of  the  peek-a-boo  description,  poured 
out  his  coffee  at  breakfast  and  sympathized  with  him 
about  the  headache  he  denied.  Then,  shaded  by  a  fluffy 
black-and-white  sunshade,  the  widow  led  Galahad  out 
into  the  sunny  garden  to  a  tree-shaded  and  sequestered 
nook  where  West  Indian  hammocks  hung,  and,  install- 
ing herself  in  one  of  these  receptacles,  invited  her  hus- 
band's  cousin  to  repose  himself  in  another. 

Lying  on  your  back,  counting  ripening  plums  dangling 
from  green  branches  above,  oscillating  at  the  bidding 


GEMINI  25 

of  the  lightest  breeze,  liable  to  upset  at  the  slightest 
movement,  it  is  difficult  to  be  indignant  and  sarcastic; 
but  Galahad  was  both. 

"Adopt  these  young  men  as  sons,  my  dear  Laura! 
Are  there  no  parentless  babies  in  the  local  workhouse 
that  would  better  supply  the  need  you  express  of  having 
something  to  cherish  and  love?"  exclaimed  Galahad. 

He  sat  up  with  an  effort  and  stared  at  Laura.  Laura 
rocked,  prone  amid  cushions,  knitting  a  silk  necktie  of 
a  tender  hue  suited  to  a  blonde  complexion. 

' '  Workhouse  babies  are  invariably  ugly,  and  unhealthy 
into  the  bargain,"  she  pouted. 

"Some  orphan  child  from  a  Home,  that  is  pretty  to 
look  at  and  has  had  the  distemper  properly,"  suggested 
Galahad. 

"I  don't  want  an  orphan  from  a  Home,"  objected 
Laura.  "Besides,  it  wouldn't  be  a  twin." 

"There  are  such  things  as  twin  orphans,  my  dear 
Laura,"  protested  Galahad. 

But  Laura  was  firm. 

"Dosy  and  Brosy  are  very,  very  dear  to  me,"  she 
protested,  a  little  pinkness  about  the  eyelids  and  nostrils 
threatening  an  impending  tear-shower.  "They  came 
into  my  life,"  she  continued  poetically,  "at  a  time  of 
sorrow  and  bereavement,  and  the  sunshine  of  their  pres- 
ence drove  the  dark  clouds  away.  Of  course,  they  are 
too  old,  or,  rather,  not  young  enough,  to  be  really  my 
sons,"  she  continued,  "but  they  might  have  been  poor 
Tom's." 

"If  poor  Tom  had  fathered  a  brace  of  bounders  like 
those,"  burst  out  Galahad,  "poor  Tom  would  have  kicked 
himself — that's  all  I  know — kicked  himself!"  he  re- 
peated, fuming  and  climbing  out  of  his  hammock. 

' '  Pray  don 't  be  coarse, ' '  entreated  Laura — ' '  and  abu- 
sive," she  added,  as  an  afterthought.  "Of  course,  as 
poor  Tom's  trustee  and  executor,  I  am  bound  to  make 


26  GEMINI 

a  show  of  consulting  you,  though  my  mind  is  really 
made  up,  and  nobody  can  prevent  my  doing  what  I  like 
with  my  own  income.  I  shall  allow  the  boys  five  hun- 
dred a  year  each  for  pocket  money,"  she  added  with 
a  pretty  maternal  air.  "And  Dosy  shall  go  into  the 
Diplomatic  Service,  and  Brosy " 

"You  have  broached  the  adoption  plan  to  them  then?" 
gasped  Galahad.  Laura  bowed  her  head.  "And  this 
relative  with  whom  I  gather  they  are  now  staying,"  he 
continued,  "is  she  agreeable  to  the  proposed  arrange- 
ment?" 

"Mrs.  Le  Bacon  Chalmers?  She  couldn't  prevent  it 
if  she  wasn't!"  retorted  Laura,  "as  the  boys  are  of  age. 
But,  as  it  happens,  she  thinks  the  plan  an  ideal  one. ' ' 

"That  proves  the  value  of  her  judgment,  certainly. 
And  the  County?  "Will  your  friends  and  neighbors  also 
think  the  plan  an  ideal  one?"  demanded  Galahad. 

"My  friends  and  neighbors,"  said  Laura,  loftily, 
' '  will  think  as  I  do,  or  they  will  cease  to  be  my  friends. ' ' 

Galahad,  usually  punctiliously  well-mannered,  whistled 
long  and  dismally.  "Phew!  And  when  you  have  alien- 
ated every  soul  upon  your  visiting  list,  what  will  you 
do  for  society?" 

' '  I  shall  have  the  boys, ' '  said  Laura,  with  defiant  ten- 
derness. 

"And  when  the  'boys,'  as  you  call  them,  marry?"  in- 
sinuated Galahad. 

Laura  sat  up  so  suddenly  that  all  her  cushions  rolled 
out  of  the  hammock.  ' '  If  this  is  how  you  treat  me  when 
I  turn  to  you  for  advice "  she  began. 

"Laura,"  said  Galahad  firmly,  "you  don't  want  ad- 
vice." He  held  up  his  lean  brown  hand  and  checked 
her,  as  she  would  have  spoken.  "Nor  do  you  require 

twin  sons  of  six  feet  three.  What  you  want  is " 

He  was  going  in  his  innocence  to  say  "a  sincere  and 
candid  friend,"  and  prove  himself  the  ideal  by  some 


GEMINI  27 

plain  speaking,  but  Laura  fairly  brimmed  over  with 
conscious  blushes. 

"How — how  can  you?"  she  said,  in  vibrating  tones 
of  reproach,  devoid  of  even  a  shade  of  anger.  ' '  So  soon, 
too!  As  if  I  did  not  know  what  was  due  to  poor 
Tom " 

The  toot  of  a  motor-horn,  the  scuffle  of  the  engine, 
the  dry  whirr  of  the  brake  as  the  locomotive  stopped 
at  the  avenue  gate,  broke  in  upon  her  heroics. 

"Here  are  the  boys,"  she  cried  rapturously,  and,  in- 
deed, hopped  out  of  the  hammock  with  the  agility  of 
girlhood  as  the  long-legged,  yellow-haired  twins  came 
stalking  over  the  grass.  She  held  out  her  hands  to  them 
with  a  pretty  maternal  gesture. 

"Dosy  pet,  Brosy  darling,"  she  babbled,  "come  and 
kiss  Mummy !  We  have  been  telling  all  our  little  plans 
to  Uncle  Galahad,  and  Uncle  quite  agrees." 

"  No !  Does  he,  though  ? ' '  was  the  simultaneous  utter- 
ance of  the  long-legged  twins.  They  twirled  their  yel- 
low mustaches,  stooped  awkwardly  and  "kissed 
Mummy,"  as  Galahad  uttered  a  yell  of  frenzied  laugh- 
ter, and,  throwing  himself  recklessly  into  his  recently- 
vacated  hammock,  shot  out  upon  the  other  side. 

He  went  back  to  Hounslow  that  day.  Dosy  and  Brosy 
dutifully  accompanied  him  to  the  station,  and  exchanged 
a  fraternal  wink  when  his  train  steamed  out. 

"What  an  infatuation!"  he  groaned.  In  his  mind's 
eye  he  saw  the  County  grinning  over  the  childless  widow 
and  her  adopted  twins.  As  for  Dosy  and  Brosy,  they 
would  have  what  in  America  is  termed  "a  soft 
snap."  Powerful  jaws  had  both  the  young  gentlemen, 
wide  and  greedy  gullets.  Still,  with  his  mind's  eye 
Galahad  saw  their  foolish,  affectionate,  sentimental  ben- 
efactress gnawed  to  the  bare  bone.  Day  by  day  he  an- 
ticipated a  letter  of  shrill  astonishment  from  his  co- 
trustee,  and  when  it  came,  hinting  at  mental  weakness 


28  GEMINI 

and  the  necessity  of  restraint,  he  flamed  up  into  de- 
fense of  Laura  so  hotly  as  to  surprise  himself. 

And  then,  before  anything  decisive  had  been  done 
with  regard  to  the  settlement — before  Brosy  and  Dosy 
had  taken  up  their  quarters  for  good  beneath  the  roof 
of  their  adopted  parent — a  change  befell,  and  Galahad 
received  an  imploring  note  from  Mrs.  Kingdom  solicit- 
ing his  instant  presence  upon  "an  urgent  matter." 

"She  has  thought  better  of  it,"  said  Galahad  to  him- 
self, as  he  obeyed  the  summons.  "Her  native  good 
sense" — you  will  realize  that  the  man-  must  have  been 
genuinely  in  love  to  believe  in  Laura's  native  good 
sense — "has  come  to  her  aid!"  And  in  his  mind's  eye 
he  beheld  the  long,  narrow  backs  of  the  twins  walking 
away  into  a  dim  perspective. 

It  was  September.  Dosy  and  Brosy  were  shooting  the 
widow's  partridges,  and  Galahad  found  her  alone.  She 
was  pleased  and  excited,  with  an  air  of  one  who  with 
difficulty  keeps  the  cork  in  a  bottle  of  mystery ;  and  when 
she  clasped  her  hands  round  Galahad 's  arm  and  told  him 
what  a  true,  true  friend  he  was !  he  felt  absurdly  tender, 
as  he  begged  her  to  confide  her  trouble  to  him. 

"I  have  made  such  a  dreadful  discovery,"  Laura 
gasped,  dabbing  her  eyes  with  a  filmy  little  square  of 
cambric  edged  with  the  narrowest  possible  line  of  black, 
"about  the — about  the  boys." 

Galahad  strove  to  compose  his  features  into  an  ex- 
pression of  decent  regret. 

"Mr.  Ambrose  and  Mr.  Theodosius  Lasher.  ...  I 
rather  anticipated  that  you — that  possibly  there  were 
discoveries  to  be  made."  He  turned  his  weary  gray  eyes 
upon  Laura,  and  pulled  at  one  wiry  end  of  his  little 
gingery  mustache.  "Have  they  done  anything  very 
bad?"  he  asked,  and  his  tone  was  not  uncheerful. 

"Bad!"  echoed  Laura,  with  indignant  scorn.  "As 
though  two  young  men  gifted  with  natures  like  theirs" 


GEMINI  29 

— she  had  left  off  calling  them  "boys,"  Galahad  no- 
ticed— "so  lofty,  so  noble,  so  unselfish — and  yes,  I  will 
say  it,  so  pure ! — could  possibly  be  guilty  of  any  bad  or 
even  doubtful  action.  But  you  do  not  know  them,  and 
you  are  prejudiced ;  you  must  admit  you  are  prejudiced 
when  you  hear  the — the  truth. ' '  The  cork  escaped,  and 
the  secret  came  with  it  in  a  gush.  "It  is  this :  I  cannot 
be  a  mother  to  Dosy  and  Brosy ;  they,  poor  dears,  cannot 
be  my  sons.  I  had  not  the  least  idea  of  their  true  feel- 
ing with  regard  to  me,  nor  had  they,  until  quite  re- 
cently. ' '  She  swallowed  a  little  sob  and  dabbed  her  eyes 
again.  "Oh,  Galahad,  they  are  madly  in  love  with  me, 
both  of  them.  What,  what  am  I  to  do?" 

"Send  them  to  the  devil,  the  impudent  young  beg- 
gars!" snorted  Galahad.  And,  striding  up  and  down 
between  the  trembling  china-tables  with  clenched  fists 
and  angry  eyes,  he  said  all  the  things  he  had  longed  to 
say  about  folly,  and  madness  and  infatuation. 

A  woman  will  always  submit  with  a  good  grace  to 
masculine  upbraiding  when  she  has  reason  to  believe 
the  upbraider  jealous.  Laura  bore  his  reproaches  with 
saintly  sweetness. 

' '  They  have  behaved  in  the  most  honorable  way,  poor 
darlings ! ' '  she  protested,  ' '  though  the  realization  of  the 
true  nature  of  their  feelings  towards  me,  of  course,  came 
as  a  terrible  shock.  The  deeds  of  settlement  had  been 
drawn  up.  We  planned,  as  soon  as  everything  had  been 
sealed  and  signed,  that  the  dear  boys  were  to  come  and 
live  here.  I  had  furnished  their  bedrooms  exactly  alike, 
and  fitted  up  the  smoking-room  with  twin  arm-chairs, 
twin  tobacco-tables,  and  so  on,  when  the  blow  fell. ' '  She 
deepened  her  voice  to  a  thrilling  whisper.  "Dosy,  look- 
ing quite  pale  and  tragic,  asked  for  an  interview  in  the 
conservatory;  Brosy  begged  for  a  private  word  in  the 
pavilion  at  the  end  of  the  upper  croquet-lawn.  And 
then,"  said  Laura,  shedding  abundant  tears,  "I  knew 


30  GEMINI 

what  I  had  done.  It  did  occur  to  me  that  I  might — 
might  marry  Brosy  and  adopt  Dosy  as  my  son,  or  marry 
Dosy  and  regard  Brosy  as  an  heir.  But  no,  it  could 
not  be.  Dosy  proposed  to  take  poison,  or  shoot  himself, 
in  the  most  unselfish  way;  and  Brosy  suggested  going 
in  for  a  swim  too  soon  after  breakfast,  and  never  rising 
from  a  dive  again.  But  neither  could  endure  to  live 
to  see  me  the  bride  of  the  other,"  sobbed  Laura. 

"And  as  this  is  England,  and  not  Malabar,"  uttered 
Galahad,  dryly,  "the  law  is  against  your  marrying 
both." 

"Why,  of  course,  my  dear  Galahad,"  cried  Laura  in- 
nocently, scandalized  and  round-eyed. 

The  man  who  really  loved  her  looked  at  her  and  for- 
gave her  foolishness.  She  had  set  the  County  buzzing 
with  the  tale  of  her  absurd  infatuation;  she  had  com- 
promised her  dignity  by  the  tragic  follies  of  the  past 
few  months;  there  was  but  one  way  of  gagging  the 
scandalmongers  and  regaining  lost  ground,  one  way  of 
getting  out  of  the  impasse.  Galahad  pointed  out  that 
way,  as  Laura  entreated  him  to  suggest  something. 

"Why  not  marry  me?"  he  said  bluntly. 

"Oh,  Galahad!"  cried  Laura,  bright-eyed  and  quite 
pleasantly  thrilled.  "And  then  we  can  both  adopt  the 
boys." 

"Whether  they  embrace  that  idea  or  not,"  said  Gala- 
had, with  his  arm  round  the  long-coveted  waist,  "re- 
mains to  be  seen.  But  I  promise  you,  if  occasion  should 
arise,  that  I  will  act  as  a  father  to  them." 

He  went  out,  in  his  new  parental  character,  to  look 
for  Dosy  and  Brosy  and  break  the  joyful  news.  His 
freckled  little  face  was  beaming  with  smiles,  his  usually 
weary  gray  eyes  were  alight ;  he  smiled  under  his  bristly 
little  mustache  as  he  selected  a  stout  but  stinging 
Malacca  cane  from  the  late  Thompson  Kingdom's  collec- 
tion in  the  hall. 


A  DISH  OF  MACARONI 

ON  the  occasion  of  the  tenth  biennial  visit  of  the 
Carlo  Da  Capo  Grand  Opera  Combination  to  the  mu- 
sical, if  murky,  city  of  Smutchester,  the  principal  mem- 
bers of  the  company  pitched  their  tents,  as  was  their 
wont,  at  the  Crown  Diamonds  Hotel,  occupying  an  entire 
floor  of  that  capacious  caravanserie,  whose  chef,  to  the 
grief  of  many  honest  British  stomachs  and  the  unre- 
strained joy  of  these  artless  children  of  song,  was  of 
cosmopolitan  gifts,  being  an  Italian-Spanish-Swiss-Ger- 
man. Here  prime  donne,  tenors,  and  bassos  could  revel 
in  national  dishes  from  which  their  palates  had  long 
been  divorced,  and  steaming  masses  of  yellow  polenta, 
knudels,  and  borsch,  heaped  dishes  of  sausages  and  red 
cabbage,  ragouts  of  cockscombs  and  chicken-livers,  veal 
stewed  with  tomatoes,  frittura  of  artichokes,  with  other 
culinary  delicacies  strange  of  aspect  and  garlicky  as  to 
smell,  loaded  the  common  board  at  each  meal,  only  to 
vanish  like  the  summer  snow,  so  seldom  seen  but  so 
constantly  referred  to  by  the  poetical  fictionist,  amidst 
a  Babel  of  conversation  which  might  only  find  its  par- 
allel in  the  parrot-house  at  the  Zoo.  Ringed  hands 
plunged  into  salad-bowls;  the  smoke  of  cigarettes  went 
up  in  the  intervals  between  the  courses ;  the  meerschaum- 
colored  lager  of  Munich,  the  yellow  beer  of  Bass,  the 
purple  Chianti,  or  the  vintage  of  Epernay  brimmed  the 
glasses;  and  the  coffee  that  crowned  the  banquet  was 
black  and  thick  and  bitter  as  the  soul  of  a  singer  who 
has  witnessed  the  triumph  of  a  rival. 
For  singers  can  be  jealous:  and  the  advice  of  Dr. 

31 


32  A    DISH    OF    MACARONI 

Watts  is  more  at  discount  behind  the  operatic  scenes, 
perhaps,  than  elsewhere.  For  women  may  be,  and  are, 
jealous  of  other  women ;  and  men  may  be,  and  are,  jeal- 
ous of  men,  off  the  stage ;  but  it  is  reserved  for  the  hero 
and  heroine  of  the  stage  to  be  jealous  of  one  another. 
The  glare  of  the  footlights,  held  by  so  many  virtuous 
persons  to  be  inimical  to  the  rosebud  of  innocence,  has 
a  curiously  wilting  and  shriveling  effect  upon  the  fine 
flower  of  chivalry.  Signor  Alberto  Fumaroli,  primo 
uomo,  and  possessor  of  a  glorious  tenor,  was  possessed 
by  the  idea  that  the  chief  soprano,  De  Melzi,  the  en- 
chanting Teresa — still  in  the  splendor  of  her  youth,  with 
ebony  tresses,  eyes  of  jet,  skin  of  ivory,  an  almost  im- 
perceptible mustache,  and  a  figure  of  the  most  seduc- 
tive, doomed  ere  long  to  expand  into  a  pronounced 
embonpoint — had  adorned  her  classic  temples  with  lau- 
rels which  should  by  rights  have  decked  his  own.  The 
press-cuttings  of  the  previous  weeks  certainly  balanced 
in  her  favor.  Feeble-minded  musical  critics,  of  what 
the  indignant  tenor  termed  "provincial  rags/'  lauded 
the  Signora  to  the  skies.  She  was  termed  a  "springing 
fountain  of  crystal  song,"  a  "human  bulbul  in  the 
rose-garden  of  melody."  Eulogy  had  exhausted  itself 
upon  her;  while  he,  Alberto  Fumaroli,  the  admired  of 
empresses,  master  of  the  emotions  of  myriads  of  Ameri- 
can millionairesses,  he  was  fobbed  off  with  half  a  dozen 
patronizing  lines.  Glancing  over  the  paper  in  the  sa- 
loon carriage,  he  had  seen  the  impertinent  upper  lip  of 
the  De  Melzi,  tipped  with  the  faintest  line  of  shadow, 
curl  with  delight  as  she  scanned  each  accursed  column 
in  turn,  and  handed  the  paper  to  her  aunt  (a  vast  per- 
son invariably  clad  in  the  tightest  and  shiniest  of  black 
satins,  and  crowned  with  a  towering  hat  of  violet  velvet 
adorned  with  once  snowy  plumes  and  crushed  crimson 
roses) ,  who  went  everywhere  with  her  niece,  and  mounted 
guard  over  the  exchequer.  Outwardly  calm  as  Vesuvius, 


A   DISH    OF   MACARONI  33 

and  cool  as  a  Neapolitan  ice  on  a  hot  day,  the  outraged 
Alberto  endured  the  triumph  of  the  women,  marked 
the  subterranean  chuckles  of  the  stout  Signora,  the  mis- 
chievous enjoyment  of  Teresa ;  pulled  his  Austrian-Tyro- 
lese  hat  over  his  Corsican  brows,  and  vowed  a  wily  ven- 
detta. His  opportunity  for  wreaking  retribution  would 
come  at  Smutchester,  he  knew.  Wagner  was  to  be  given 
at  the  Opera  House,  and  as  great  as  the  previous  tri- 
umph of  Teresa  de  Melzi  in  the  role  of  Elsa — newly 
added  by  the  soprano  to  her  repertoire — should  be  her 
fall.  Evviva!  Down  with  that  fatally  fascinating  face, 
smiling  so  provokingly  under  its  laurels!  She  should 
taste  the  consequences  of  having  insulted  a  Neapolitan. 
And  the  tenor  smiled  so  diabolically  that  Zamboni,  the 
basso,  sarcastically  inquired  whether  Fumaroli  was  re- 
hearsing Mephistofole  ? 

"Not  so,  dear  friend,"  Fumaroli  responded,  with  a 
dazzling  show  of  ivories.  "In  that  part  I  should  make 
a  bel  fiasco;  I  have  no  desire  to  emulate  a  basso  or  a 
bull.  .  .  .  But  in  this — the  role  in  which  I  am  study- 
ing to  perfect  myself — I  predict  that  I  shall  achieve  a 
dazzling  success."  He  drew  out  a  green  Russia-leather 
cigarette  case,  adorned  with  a  monogram  in  diamonds. 
"It  is  permitted  that  one  smokes?"  he  added,  and  im- 
mediately lighted  up. 

"It  is  permitted,  if  I  am  to  have  one  also." 
The  De  Melzi  stretched  a  white,  bejeweled  hand  out, 
and  the  seething  Alberto,  under  pain  of  appearing 
openly  impolite,  was  forced  to  comply.  "No,  I  will  not 
take  the  cigarette  you  point  out,"  said  the  saucy  prima 
donna,  as  the  tenor  extended  the  open  case.  "It  might 
disagree  with  me,  who  knows  ?  and  I  have  predicted  that 
in  the  part  of  Elsa  to-morrow  night  at  Smutchester  / 
shall  achieve  a  'dazzling  success.'  "  And  she  smiled 
with  brilliant  malice  upon  Alberto  Fumaroli,  who  played 
Lohengrin.  ' '  They  are  discriminating — the  audiences  of 


34  A    DISH    OF    MACARONI 

that  big,  black,  melancholy  place — they  never  mistake 
geese  for  swans." 

"Ach,  no!"  said  the  Impresario,  looking  up  from  his 
tatting — he  was  engaged  upon  a  green  silk  purse  for 
Madame  Da  Capo,  a  wrinkled  little  doll  of  an  old  lady 
with  whom  he  was  romantically  in  love.  "They  will 
not  take  a  dournure,  some  declamation,  and  half  a 
dozen  notes  in  the  upper  register  hour  dout  botage. 
Sing  to  them  well,  they  will  be  ready  to  give  you  their 
heads.  But  sing  to  them  badly,  and  they  will  be  ready 
to  pelt  yours.  Twenty  years  ago  they  did.  I  remem- 
ber a  graceless  impostor,  a  ragazzo  (foisted  upon  me 
for  a  season  by  a  villain  of  an  agent),  who  annoyed  them 
in  Almaviva.  .  .  .  E'b'bene!  the  elections  were  in  prog- 
ress— there  was  a  dimonstranza.  I  can  smell  those  an- 
tique eggs,  those  decomposed  oranges,  now. ' ' 

"Heart's  dearest,  thou  must  not  excite  thyself,"  inter- 
rupted Madame;  "it  is  so  bad  for  thee.  Play  at  the 
poker-game,  mes  enfants,"  she  continued,  "and  leave 
my  good  child,  my  beloved  little  one,  alone!"  Saying 
this,  Madame  drew  from  her  vast  under-pocket  a  neat 
case  containing  an  ivory  comb,  and,  removing  the  fear- 
fully and  wonderfully  braided  traveling  cap  of  the  Im- 
presario, fell  to  combing  his  few  remaining  hairs  until, 
soothed  by  the  process,  Carlo,  who  had  been  christened 
Karl,  fell  asleep  with  his  head  on  Madame 's  shoulder; 
snoring  peacefully,  despite  the  screams,  shrieks,  howls, 
and  maledictions  which  were  the  invariable  accompani- 
ment of  the  poker-game. 

The  train  bundled  into  Smutchester  some  hours  later ; 
a  string  of  cabs  conveyed  the  Impresario,  his  wife,  and 
the  principal  members  of  his  company  to  the  Crown 
Diamonds  Hotel.  Before  he  sought  his  couch  that  night 
the  revengeful  Alberto  Fumaroli  had  interviewed  the 
chef  and  bribed  him  with  the  gift  of  a  box  of  regalias 
from  the  cedar  smoking-cabinet  of  a  King,  to  aid  in 


A    DISH    OF    MACARONI  35 

the  carrying-out  of  the  vendetta.  Josebattista  Funk- 
nmller  was  not  a  regal  judge  of  cigars ;  but  these  were 
black,  rank,  and  oily  enough  to  have  made  an  Emperor 
most  imperially  sick.  Besides,  the  De  Melzi  had,  or 
so  he  declared,  once  ascribed  an  indigestion  which  had 
ruined,  or  so  she  swore,  one  of  her  grandest  scenas,  to  an 
omelette  of  his  making,  and  the  cook  was  not  unwilling 
that  the  haughty  spirit  of  the  cantatrice  should  be 
crushed.  His  complex  nature,  his  cosmopolitan  origin, 
showed  in  the  plan  Josebattista  Funkmuller  now  evolved 
and  placed  before  the  revengeful  tenor,  who  clasped  him 
to  his  bosom  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight,  planting  at 
the  same  time  a  huge,  resounding  kiss  upon  both  his 
cheeks. 

"It  is  perfection!"  Fumaroli  cried.  "My  friend,  it 
can  scarcely  fail!  If  it  should,  per  Bacco!  the  Fiend 
himself  is  upon  that  insolent  creature's  side!  But  I 
never  heard  yet  of  his  helping  a  woman  to  resist  tempta- 
tion— oh,  mai!  it  is  he  who  spreads  the  board  and  in- 
vites Eve." 

And  the  tenor  retired  exultant.  His  sleeping-cham- 
ber was  next  door  to  that  of  the  hated  cantatrice.  He 
dressed  upon  the  succeeding  morning  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  roulades  trilled  by  the  owner  of  the  lovely  throat 
to  which  Fumaroli  would  so  willingly  have  given  the 
fatal  squeeze.  And  as  Fumaroli,  completing  his  frugal 
morning  ablutions  by  wiping  his  beautiful  eyes  and  clas- 
sic temples  very  gingerly  with  a  damp  towel,  paused  to 
listen,  a  smile  of  peculiar  malignancy  was  only  partly 
obscured  by  the  folds  of  the  towel.  But  when  the  tenor 
and  the  soprano  encountered  at  the  twelve  o'clock 
dejeuner,  Fumaroli 's  politeness  was  excessive,  and  his 
large,  dark,  brilliant  eyes  responded  to  every  glance  of 
the  gleaming  black  orbs  of  De  Melzi  with  a  languorous, 
melting  significance  which  almost  caused  her  heart  to 
palpitate  beneath  her  Parisian  corsets.  Concealed  pas- 


36  A   DISH    OP    MACARONI 

sion  lay,  it  might  be,  behind  an  affectation  of  enmity 
and  ill-will. 

"Mai  santo  cielo!"  exclaimed  the  stout  aunt,  to  whom 
the  cantatrice  subsequently  revealed  her  suspicions, 
"thou  guessest  always  as  I  myself  have  thought.  The 
unhappy  man  is  devoured  by  a  grand  passion  for  my 
Teresa.  He  grinds  his  teeth,  he  calls  upon  the  saints, 
he  grows  more  bilious  every  day,  and  thou  more  beau- 
tiful. One  day  he  will  declare  himself " 

"And  I  shall  lose  an  entertaining  enemy,  to  find  a 
stupid  lover,"  gurgled  Teresa.  She  was  looking  divine, 
her  dark  beauty  glowing  like  a  gem  in  the  setting  of 
an  Eastern  silk  of  shot  turquoise  and  purple,  fifty 
yards  of  which  an  enamored  noble  of  the  Ukraine  had 
thrown  upon  the  stage  of  the  Opera  House,  St.  Peters- 
burg, wound  round  the  stem  of  a  costly  bouquet.  She 
glanced  in  the  mirror  as  she  kissed  the  black  nose  of  her 
Japanese  pug.  "Every  man  becomes  stupid  after  a 
while,"  she  went  on.  "Even  Josebattista  is  in  love 
with  me.  He  sends  me  a  little  note  written  on  papier 
jambon  to  entreat  an  interview." 

"My  soul!"  cried  the  stout  aunt,  "thou  wilt  not  deny 
him?" 

The  saucy  singer  shook  her  head  as  Funkmuller  tapped 
at  the  door.  One  need  not  give  in  detail  the  interview 
that  eventuated.  It  is  enough  that  the  intended  treach- 
ery of  Fumaroli  was  laid  bare.  His  intended  victim 
laughed  madly. 

"But  it  is  a  cerotto — what  the  English  call  a  nincom- 
poop," she  gasped,  pressing  a  laced  handkerchief  to  her 
streaming  eyes.  "If  the  heavens  were  to  fall,  then  one 
could  catch  larks;  but  the  proverb  says  nothing  about 
nightingales. ' ' 

She  tossed  her  brilliant  head  and  took  a  turn  or  two 
upon  the  hotel  sitting-room  carpet,  considering. 

' '  I  will  keep  this  appointment, ' '  said  she. 


A    DISH    OF    MACARONI  37 

"Dio!  And  risk  thy  precious  reputation?"  shrieked 
the  aunt. 

"  Chi    sa?      Chi    sa? 
Evviva  1  'opportunita ! ' ' 

hummed  the  provoking  beauty.  And  she  dealt  the  cook 
a  sparkling  glance  of  such  intelligence  that  he  felt 
Signor  Alberto  would  never  triumph.  Eelieved  in  mind, 
Josebattista  Funkmuller  took  his  leave. 

"I  will  return  the  King's  cigars,"  he  said,  as  he 
pressed  his  garlic-scented  mustache  to  the  pearly 
knuckles  of  the  lady. 

"Bah!"  said  she,  "they  were  won  in  a  raffle  at 
Vienna." 

The  door  closed  upon  the  disgusted  chef,  and  re- 
opened ten  minutes  later  to  admit  a  waiter  carrying 
upon  a  salver  a  pretty  three-cornered  pink  note  with 
a  gold  monogram  in  the  corner.  The  writer  entreated 
the  inestimable  privilege  of  three  minutes'  conversation 
with  Madame  de  Melzi  in  a  private  apartment  in  the 
basement  of  the  hotel.  He  did  not  propose  to  visit  the 
prima  donna  in  her  own  rooms,  even  under  the  wing  of 
her  aunt,  for  it  was  of  supreme  importance  that  tongues 
should  not  be  set  wagging.  Delicacy  and  respect  pre- 
vented him  from  suggesting  an  interview  in  the  apart- 
ments occupied  by  himself.  On  the  neutral  ground  of 
an  office  in  the  basement  the  interview  might  take  place 
without  comment  or  interruption.  He  was,  in  fact,  wait- 
ing there  for  an  answer. 

The  answer  came  in  the  person  of  the  singer  herself, 
charmingly  dressed  and  radiant  with  loveliness. 

' '  Fie !  What  an  underground  hole !  The  window 
barred,  the  blank  wall  of  an  area  beyond  it!"  Her 
beautiful  nostrils  quivered.  "Caro  mio,  you  have  in 
that  covered  dish  upon  the  table  there  something  that 
smells  good.  What  is  under  the  cover?" 


38  A    DISH    OF    MACARONI 

' '  Look  and  see ! "  said  the  cunning  tenor,  with  a  pro- 
voking smile. 

"I  am  not  curious,"  responded  Teresa,  putting  both 
hands  behind  her  and  leaning  Her  back  against  the  door. 
"Come,  hurry  up!  One  of  your  three  minutes  has 
gone  by,  the  other  two  will  follow,  and  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  take  myself  off  without  having  heard  this 
mysterious  revelation.  What  is  it?"  She  showed  a 
double  row  of  pearl-hued  teeth  in  a  mischievous  smile. 
"Shall  I  guess?  You  have,  by  chance,  fallen  in  love 
with  me,  and  wish  to  tell  me  so?  How  dull  and  un- 
original! A  vivacious,  interesting  enemy  is  to  be  pre- 
ferred a  million  times  before  a  stupid  friend  or  a  com- 
monplace adorer." 

"Grazie  a  Dio!"  said  the  tenor,  "I  am  not  in  love 
with  you."  But  at  that  moment  he  was  actually  upon 
the  verge;  and  the  dull,  dampish  little  basement  room, 
floored  with  kamptulicon  warmed  by  a  grudging  little 
gas-stove,  its  walls  adorned  with  a  few  obsolete  and 
hideous  prints,  its  oilcloth-covered  table,  on  which  stood 
the  mysterious  dish,  closely  covered,  bubbling  over  a 
spirit  lamp  and  flanked  by  a  spoon,  fork,  and  plate — 
that  little  room  might  have  been  the  scene  of  a  declara- 
tion instead  of  a  punishment  had  it  not  been  for  the 
De  Melzi's  amazing  nonchalance.  It  would  have  been 
pleasant  to  have  seen  the  spiteful  little  arrow  pierce 
that  lovely  bosom.  But  instead  of  frowning  or  biting 
her  lips,  Teresa  laughed  with  the  frankest  grace  in  the 
world. 

"Dear  Signor  Alberto,  Heaven  has  spared  you  much. 
Besides,  you  are  of  those  who  esteem  quantity  above 
quality — and,  for  a  certain  thing,  I  should  be  torn  to 
pieces  by  the  ladies  of  the  Chorus."  She  shrugged  her 
shoulders.  "Well,  what  is  this  mysterious  communica- 
tion? The  three  minutes  are  up,  the  fumes  of  a  gas 
fire  are  bad  for  the  throat — and  I  presume  you  of  all 


A    DISH    OF    MACARONI  39 

people  would  not  wish  me  to  sing  'Elsa'  with  a  veiled 
voice,  and  disappoint  the  dear  people  of  Smutchester, 
and  Messieurs  the  critics,  who  say  such  kind  things." 

Alberto  Fumaroli's  brain  spun  round.  Quick  as 
thought  his  supple  hand  went  out;  the  wrist  of  the  co- 
quettish prima  donna  was  imprisoned  as  in  a  vise  of 
steel. 

"Ragazza!"  he  gnashed  out,  "you  shall  pay  for  your 
cursed  insolence."  He  swung  the  cantatrice  from  the 
door,  and  Teresa,  noting  the  convulsed  workings  of  his 
Corsican  features,  and  devoured  by  the  almost  scorching 
glare  of  his  fierce  eyes,  felt  a  thrill  of  alarm. 

"Oime!  Signer,"  she  faltered,  "what  do  you  mean 
by  this  violence?  Recollect  that  we  are  not  now  upon 
the  stage." 

A  harsh  laugh  came  from  the  bull  throat  of  the  tenor. 

"  By  mystic  Love 

Brought  from  the  distance 
In  thy  hour  of  need. 
Behold  me,  O  Elsa! 
Loveliest,  purest — 
Thine  own 
Unknown ! ' ' 

he  hummed.  But  his  Elsa  did  not  entreat  to  flow  about 
his  feet  like  the  river,  or  kiss  them  like  the  flowers  bloom- 
ing amidst  the  grasses  he  trod.  Struggling  in  vain  for 
release  from  the  rude,  unchivalrous  grasp,  an  idea  came 
to  her ;  she  stooped  her  beautiful  head  and  bit  Lohengrin 
smartly  on  the  wrist,  evoking,  instead  of  further  music, 
a  torrent  of  curses ;  and  as  Alberto  danced  and  yelled  in 
agony,  she  darted  from  the  room.  With  the  key  she  had 
previously  extracted  she  locked  the  door;  and  as  her 
light  footsteps  and  crisping  draperies  retreated  along 
the  passage,  the  tenor  realized  that  he  was  caught  in 
his  own  trap.  Winding  his  handkerchief  about  his 


40  A    DISH    OF    MACARONI 

smarting  wrist,  he  bestowed  a  few  more  hearty  curses 
upon  Teresa,  and  sat  down  upon  a  horsehair-covered 
chair  to  wait  for  deliverance.  They  could  not  possibly 
give  "Lohengrin"  without  him — there  was  no  under- 
study for  the  part.  For  her  own  sake,  therefore,  the 
De  Melzi  would  see  him  released  in  time  to  assume 
the  armor  of  the  Knight  of  the  Swan.  Ebbene!  There 
was  nothing  to  do  but  wait.  He  looked  at  his  watch, 
a  superb  timepiece  encrusted  with  brilliants.  Two 
o'clock!  And  the  opera  did  not  commence  until  eight. 
Six  hours  to  spend  in  this  underground  hole,  if  no  one 
came  to  let  him  out.  Patience !  He  would  smoke.  He 
got  over  half  an  hour  with  the  aid  of  the  green  cigar- 
ette-case. Then  he  did  a  little  pounding  at  the  door. 
This  bruised  his  tender  hands,  and  he  soon  left  off  and 
took  to  shouting.  To  the  utmost  efforts  of  his  magnifi- 
cent voice  no  response  was  made;  the  part  of  the  hotel 
basement  in  which  his  prison  happened  to  be  situated 
was,  in  the  daytime,  when  all  the  servants  were  engaged 
in  their  various  departments,  almost  deserted.  There- 
fore, after  an  hour  of  shouting,  Fumaroli  abandoned 
his  efforts. 

What  was  to  be  done?  He  could  take  a  siesta,  and 
did,  extended  upon  two  of  the  grim  horsehair  chairs 
with  which  the  apartment  was  furnished.  He  slept 
excellently  for  an  hour,  and  woke  hungry. 

Hungry!  Diavolo!  with  what  a  raging  hunger — an 
appetite  of  Gargantuan  proportions,  sharpened  to  the 
pitch  of  famine  by  the  bubbling  gushes  of  savory  steam 
that  jetted  from  underneath  the  cover  of  the  mysterious 
dish  still  simmering  over  its  spirit-lamp  upon  the  table ! 
He  knew  what  that  dish  contained — his  revenge,  in  fact. 
Well,  it  had  missed  fire,  the  vendetta.  He  who  had 
devised  the  ordeal  of  temptation  for  Teresa  found  him- 
self helpless,  exposed  to  its  fiendish  seductions.  Not  that 
he  would  be  likely  to  yield,  oh  mail  was  it  probable? 


A    DISH    OF    MACARONI  41 

He  banished  the  idea  with  a  gesture  full  of  superb  scorn 
and  a  haughty  smile.  Never,  a  thousand  times  never! 
The  cunning  Teresa  should  be  disappointed.  That  even- 
ing's performance  should  be  attacked  by  him  as  ever, 
fasting,  the  voice  of  melody,  the  sonorous  lungs,  sup- 
ported by  an  empty  frame.  Cospetto!  how  savory  the 
smell  that  came  from  that  covered  dish!  The  unhappy 
tenor  moved  to  the  table,  snuffed  it  up  in  nosefuls, 
thought  of  flinging  the  dish  and  its  contents  out  of  win- 
dow— would  have  done  so  had  not  the  window  been 
barred. 

"After  all,  perhaps  she  means  to  keep  me  here  all 
night, ' '  he  thought,  and  rashly  lifted  the  dish-cover,  re- 
vealing a  vast  and  heaving  plain  of  macaroni,  over 
which  little  rills  of  liquid  butter  wandered.  Parmesan 
cheese  was  not  lacking  to  the  dish,  nor  the  bland  juices 
of  the  sliced  tomato,  and,  like  the  violet  by  the  wayside, 
the  modest  garlic  added  its  perfume  to  the  distracting 
bouquet.  Fumaroli  was  only  human,  though,  as  a  tenor, 
divine.  He  had  been  shut  up  for  four  hours,  fasting, 
in  company  with  a  dish  of  macaroni.  .  .  .  Ah,  Heaven ! 
he  could  endure  no  longer.  .  .  .  He  drew  up  a  chair, 
grasped  fork  and  spoon — fell  to.  In  the  act  of  finishing 
the  dish,  he  started,  fancying  that  the  silvery  tinkle 
of  a  feminine  laugh  sounded  at  the  keyhole.  But  his 
faculties  were  dulled  by  vast  feeding;  his  anger,  like 
his  appetite,  had  lost  its  edge.  With  an  effort  he  dis- 
posed of  the  last  shreds  of  macaroni,  the  last  trickle 
of  butter ;  and  at  seven  o'clock  a  waiter,  who  accidentally 
unlocked  the  door  of  the  basement  room,  awakened  a 
plethoric  sleeper  from  heavy  dreams. 

"To  the  Opera  House,"  was  the  listless  direction  he 
gave  the  driver  of  his  hired  brougham ;  as  one  in  a  dream 
he  entered  by  the  stage-door,  and  strode  to  his  room. 

The  curtain  had  already  risen  upon  grassy  lowlands 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Antwerp.  Henry,  King  of  Ger- 


42  A    DISH    OF    MACARONI 

many,  seated  under  a  spreading  canvas  oak,  held  court 
with  military  pomp.  Frederic  of  Telramond,  wizard 
husband  of  Ortrud,  the  witch,  had  stepped  forward  to 
accuse  Elsa  of  the  murder  of  her  brother,  Gottlieb; 
the  King  had  cried,  "Summon  the  maid!"  and  in  an- 
swer to  the  command,  amidst  the  blare  of  brass  and  the 
clashing  of  swords,  the  De  Melzi,  draped  in  pure  white, 
followed  by  her  ladies,  and  looking  the  picture  of  vir- 
ginal innocence,  moved  dreamily  into  view: 

"  How   like    an   angel! 
He  who  accuses  her 
Must  surely  prove 
This  maiden's  guilt." 

Ah!  had  those  who  listened  to  the  thrilling  strains 
that  poured  from  those  exquisite  lips  but  guessed,  as 
Elsa  described  the  appearance  of  her  dream-defender, 
her  shining  Knight,  and  sank  upon  her  knees  in  an 
ecstasy  of  passionate  prayer,  that  the  celestial  deliverer 
was  at  that  moment  gasping  in  the  agonies  of  indiges- 
tion! 

"  Let  me  behold 

That  form  of  light!" 

entreated  the  maiden;  and  amidst  the  exclamations  of 
the  eight-part  chorus  the  swan-drawn  bark  approached 
the  bank ;  the  noble,  if  somewhat  fleshy,  form  of  Alberto 
Fumaroli,  clad  from  head  to  foot  in  silvery  mail,  stepped 
from  it.  ...  With  lofty  grace  he  waved  his  adieu  to 
the  swan,  he  launched  upon  his  opening  strain  of  un- 
accompanied melody.  .  .  .  Alas !  how  muffled,  how  fari- 
naceous those  once  clarion  tones!  ...  In  labored  ac- 
cents, amid  the  growing  disappointment  of  the  Smut- 
chester  audience,  Lohengrin  announced  his  mission  to 
the  King.  As  he  folded  the  entranced  Elsa  to  his  op- 
pressed bosom,  crying: 


A    DISH    OF    MACARONI  43 

"  Elsa,  I  love  thee!" 

"She-devil,  you  have  ruined  me!"  he  hissed  in  the 
De  Melzi's  ear. 

"  My  hope,  my  solace, 
My  hero,  I  am  thine ! ' ' 

Teresa  trilled  in  answer.  And  raising  her  love-illu- 
mined, mischievously  dancing  eyes  to  her  deliverer, 
breathed  in  his  ear:  "Try  pepsin!" 


"FREDDY  &  CIE" 

IT  is  always  a  perplexing  question  how  to  provide 
for  younger  sons,  and  the  immediate  relatives  of  the 
Honorable  Freddy  Foulkes  had  forfeited  a  considerable 
amount  of  beauty  sleep  in  connection  with  the  problem. 

"My  poor  darling!"  the  Marchioness  of  Glanmire 
sighed  one  day,  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,  when 
the  Honorable  Freddy  brought  his  charming  smile  and 
his  graceful  but  unemployed  person  into  her  morning- 
room.  "If  you  could  only  find  some  congenial  and  at 
the  same  time  lucrative  post  that  would  take  up  your 
time  and  absorb  your  spare  energy,  how  grateful  I 
should  be!" 

"I  have  found  it,"  said  the  Honorable  Freddy,  with 
his  cherubic  smile.  He  possessed  the  blonde  curling  hair 
and  artless  expression  that  may  be  symbolical  of  guile- 
lessness  or  the  admirable  mask  of  guile. 

"Thank  Heaven!"  breathed  his  mother.  Then,  with 
a  sense  that  the  thanksgiving  might,  after  all,  be  pre- 
mature, she  inquired:  "But  of  what  nature  is  this 
post?  Before  it  can  be  seriously  considered,  one  must 
be  certain  that  it  entails  no  loss  of  caste,  demands  noth- 
ing derogatory  in  the  nature  of  service  from  one  who — 
I  need  not  remind  you  of  your  position,  or  of  the  fact 
that  your  family  must  be  considered. ' ' 

She  smoothed  her  darling's  silky  hair,  which  exhaled 
the  choicest  perfume  of  Bond  Street,  and  kissed  his  brow, 
as  pure  and  shadowless  as  a  slice  of  cream  cheese,  as 
the  young  man  replied: 

"Pearest  mother,  you  certainly  need  not." 


"FREDDY    &    CIE"  45 

"Then  tell  me  of  this  post.  Is  it  anything,"  the 
Marchioness  asked,  "in  the  Diplomatic  line?" 

"Without  a  good  deal  of  diplomacy  a  man  would  be 
no  good  for  the  shop,"  admitted  Freddy;  "but  other- 
wise, your  guess  is  out." 

Doubt  darkened  his  mother's  eyes. 

' '  Don 't  say, ' '  she  exclaimed,  ' '  that  you  have  accepted 
a  Club  Secretaryship?  To  me  it  seems  the  last  re- 
source of  the  unsuccessful  man." 

"It  will  never  be  mine,"  said  Freddy,  "because  I 
can't  keep  accounts,  and  they  wouldn't  have  me.  Try 
again. ' ' 

"I  trust  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  Art,"  breathed 
the  Marchioness,  who  loathed  the  children  of  canvas  and 
palette  with  an  unreasonable  loathing. 

"In  a  way  it  has,"  replied  her  son,  "and  in  another 
way  it  hasn't.  Come!  I'll  give  you  a  lead.  There  is 
a  good  deal  of  straw  in  the  business  for  one  thing." 

"You  cannot  contemplate  casting  in  your  lot  with 
the  agricultural  classes?  No!  I  knew  the  example  of 
your  unhappy  cousin  Reginald  would  prevent  you  from 
adopting  so  wild  a  course  .  .  .  but  you  spoke  of  straw. ' ' 

"Of  straw.    And  flowers.    And  tulles." 

' '  Flowers  and  tools !  Gardening  is  a  craze  which  has 
become  fashionable  of  late.  But  I  cannot  calmly  see 
you  in  an  apron,  potting  plants." 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  potting  plants,  but  of  potting 
customers,"  said  Freddy,  showing  his  white  teeth  in  a 
charming  smile. 

A  shudder  convulsed  Freddy's  mother.  Freddy  went 
on,  filially  patting  her  handsome  hand : 

"You  see,  I  have  decided,  and  gone  into  trade.  If 
I  were  a  wealthy  cad,  I  should  keep  a  bucket-shop. 
Being  a  poor  gentleman,  I  am  going  to  make  a  bonnet- 
shop  keep  me.  And,  what  is  more — I  intend  to  trim 
all  the  bonnets  myself!" 


46  "FREDDY    &    CIE" 

There  was  no  heart  disease  upon  the  maternal  side 
of  the  house.  The  Marchioness  did  not  become  pale  blue, 
and  sink  backwards,  clutching  at  her  corsage.  She  rose 
to  her  feet  and  boxed  her  son's  right  ear.  He  calmly 
offered  the  left  one  for  similar  treatment. 

"Don't  send  me  out  looking  uneven,"  he  said  simply. 
"  If  I  pride  myself  upon  anything,  it  is  a  well-balanced 
appearance.  And  I  have  to  put  in  an  hour  or  so  at  the 
shop  by-and-by."  He  glanced  in  the  mantel-mirror  as 
he  spoke,  and  observing  with  gratification  that  his  im- 
maculate necktie  had  escaped  disarrangement,  he  twisted 
his  little  mustache,  smiled,  and  knew  himself  irresist- 
ible. 

"The  shop!  Degenerate  boy!"  cried  his  mother. 
"Who  is  your  partner  in  this — this  enterprise?" 

"You  know  her  by  sight,  I  think,"  returned  the 
cherub  coolly.  "Mrs.  Vivianson,  widow  of  the  man  who 
led  the  Doncaster  Fusiliers  to  the  top  of  Mealie  Kop 
and  got  shot  there.  Awfully  fetching,  and  as  clever  as 
they  make  them!" 

"That  woman  one  sees  everywhere  with  a  positive 
procession  of  young  men  at  her  heels!" 

' '  That  woman,  and  no  other. ' ' 

"She  is  hardly " 

"She  is  awfully  chic,  especially  in  mourning." 

"I  will  admit  she  has  some  style." 

"Admit,  when  you  and  all  the  other  women  have 
copied  the  color  of  her  hair  and  the  cut  of  her  sleeves 
for  three  seasons  past !  I  like  that ! ' ' 

Freddy  was  growing  warm. 

"When  you  accuse  me  of  imitating  the  appearance  of 
a  person  of  that  kind,"  said  Lady  Glanmire,  in  a  cold 
fury,  "you  insult  your  mother.  And  when  you  ally 
yourself  with  her  in  the  face  of  Society,  as  you  are  about 
to  do,  you  are  going  too  far.  As  to  this  millinery  estab- 
lishment, it  shall  not  open." 


"FREDDY    &    CIE"  47 

"My  dear  mother,"  said  Freddy,  "it  has  been  open 
for  a  week." 

He  drew  a  card  from  an  exquisite  case  mounted  in 
gold.  On  the  pasteboard  appeared  the  following  inscrip- 
tion in  neat  characters  of  copperplate: — 

FREDDY  &  CIB 

COURT  MILLINERS, 

11,  CONDOVER  STREET,  W. 

' '  Freddy  and  Company ! ' '  murmured  the  stricken  par- 
ent, as  she  perused  the  announcement. 

"Mrs.  V.  is  company,"  observed  the  son,  with  a  spice 
of  vulgarity;  "and  uncommonly  good  company,  too.  As 
for  myself,  my  talents  have  at  last  found  scope,  and 
millinery  is  my  metier.  How  often  haven't  you  said 
that  no  one  has  such  exquisite  taste  in  the  arrangement 
of  flowers " 

' '  As  you,  Freddy !    It  is  true !    But ' ' 

' '  Haven 't  you  declared,  over  and  over  again,  that  you 
have  never  had  a  maid  who  could  put  on  a  mantle, 
adjust  a  fold  of  lace,  or  pin  on  a  toque  as  skillfully  as 
your  own  son?" 

"My  boy,  I  own  it.  Still,  millinery  as  a  profes- 
sion ?  Can  you  call  it  quite  manly  for  a  man  ? ' ' 

"To  spend  one's  life  in  arranging  combinations  to 
set  off  other  women's  complexions.  Can  you  call  that 
womanly  for  a  woman  ?  To  my  mind, ' '  pursued  Freddy, 
"it  is  the  only  occupation  for  a  man  of  real  refinement. 
To  crown  Beauty  with  beauty!  To  dream  exquisite 
confections,  which  shall  add  the  one  touch  wanting  to 
exquisite  youth  or  magnificent  middle-age!  To  build 
up  with  deft  touches  a  creation  which  shall  betray  in 
every  detail,  in  every  effect,  the  hand  of  a  genius  united 
to  the  soul  of  a  lover,  and  reap  not  only  gold,  but  glory ! 
Would  this  not  be  Fame?" 


48  "FREDDY    &    CIE" 

"Ah!  I  no  longer  recognize  you.  You  do  not  talk 
like  your  dear  old  self!"  cried  the  Marchioness. 

"I  am  glad  of  it,"  replied  Freddy,  "for,  frankly,  I 
was  beginning  to  find  my  dear  old  self  a  bore."  He 
drew  out  a  watch,  and  his  monogram  and  crest  in  dia- 
monds scintillated  upon  the  case.  His  eye  gleamed  with 
proud  triumph  as  he  said :  ' '  Ten  to  twelve.  At  twelve 
I  am  due  at  Condover  Street.  Come,  not  as  my  mother, 
if  you  are  ashamed  of  my  profession,  but  as  a  customer 
ashamed  of  that  bonnet"  (Lady  Glanmire  was  dressed 
for  walking),  "which  you  ought  to  have  given  to  your 
cook  long  ago.  Unless  you  would  prefer  your  own 
brougham,  mine  is  at  the  door." 

The  vehicle  in  question  bore  the  smartest  appearance. 
The  Marchioness  entered  it  without  a  murmur,  and  was 
whirled  to  Condover  Street.  The  name  of  Freddy  & 
Cie.  appeared  in  a  delicate  flourish  of  golden  letters 
above  the  chastely-decorated  portals  of  the  establishment, 
and  the  plate-glass  window  contained  nothing  but  an 
assortment  of  plumes,  ribbons,  chiffons,  and  shapes  of 
the  latest  mode,  but  not  a  single  completed  article  of 
head  apparel. 

The  street  was  already  blocked  with  carriages,  the 
vestibule  packed,  the  shop  thronged  with  a  vast  and 
ever-increasing  assemblage  of  women,  amongst  whom 
Lady  Glanmire  recognized  several  of  her  dearest  friends. 
She  wished  she  had  not  come,  and  looked  for  Freddy. 
Freddy  had  vanished.  His  partner,  Mrs.  Vivianson,  a 
vividly-tinted,  elegant  brunette  of  some  thirty  summers, 
assisted  by  three  or  four  charming  girls,  modestly  attired 
and  elegantly  coiffee,  was  busily  engaged  with  those 
would-be  customers,  not  a  few,  who  sought  admission 
to  the  inner  room,  whose  pale  green  portiere  bore  in  gold 
letters  of  embroidery  the  word  atelier. 

"You  see,"  she  was  saying,  "to  the  outer  shop  admis- 
sion is  quite  free.  We  are  charmed  to  see  everybody 


"FREDDY    &    CIE"  49 

who  likes  to  come,  don 't  you  know  ?  and  show  them  the 
latest  shades  and  shapes  and  things.  But  consultation 
with  Monsieur  Freddy — we  charge  five  shillings  for  that. 
Unusual?  Perhaps.  But  Monsieur  Freddy  is  Monsieur 
Freddy ! ' '  And  her  shrug  was  worthy  of  a  Parisienne. 
"Why  do  you  ask?  'Is  it  true  that  he  is  the  younger 
son  of  the  Duke  of  Deershire?'  Dear  Madame,  to  us 
he  is  Monsieur  Freddy;  and  we  seek  no  more." 

"A  born  tradeswoman!"  thought  Lady  Glanmire,  as 
the  silver  coins  were  exchanged  for  little  colored  silk 
tickets  bearing  mystic  numbers.  She  moved  forward 
and  tendered  two  half-crowns;  and  Freddy's  partner 
and  Freddy's  mother  looked  one  another  in  the  face. 
But  Mrs.  Vivianson  maintained  an  admirable  composure. 

And  then  the  curtains  of  the  atelier  parted,  and  a 
young  and  pretty  woman  came  out  quickly.  She  was 
charmingly  dressed,  and  wore  the  most  exquisite  of  hats, 
and  a  murmur  went  up  at  sight  of  it.  She  stretched 
out  her  hands  to  a  friend  who  rushed  impulsively  to 
meet  her,  and  her  voice  broke  in  a  sob  of  rapture. 

"Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  sweet?  And  he  did  it 
like  magic — one  scarcely  saw  his  fingers  move!"  she 
cried;  and  her  friend  burst  into  exclamations  of  de- 
light, and  a  chorus  rose  up  about  them. 

"Wonderful!" 

( '  Extraordinary/' ' 

"He  does  it  while  you  wait!" 

"Just  for  curiosity,  I  really  must!" 

And  a  wave  of  eager  women  surged  towards  the  green 
portiere.  Three  went  in,  being  previously  deprived  of 
their  headgear  by  the  respectful  attendants,  who  averred 
tihat  it  put  Monsieur  Freddy's  taste  out  of  gear  for 
the  day  to  be  compelled  to  gaze  upon  any  creation 
other  than  his  own.  And  then  it  came  to  the  turn  of 
Lady  Glanmire. 

She,  disbonneted,  entered  the  sanctum.    A  pale,  clear, 


50  "FREDDY    &    CIE" 

golden  light  illumined  it  from  above;  the  walls  were 
hung  with  draperies  of  delicate  pink,  the  carpet  was 
moss-green.  In  the  center  of  the  apartment,  upon  a 
broad,  low  divan,  reclined  the  figure  of  a  slender  young 
man.  He  wore  a  black  satin  mask,  concealing  the  upper 
part  of  his  face,  a  loose,  lounging  suit  of  black  velvet, 
and  slippers  of  the  same  with  the  embroidered  initial 
"F."  Round  him  stood,  mute  and  attentive  as  slaves, 
some  half-dozen  pretty  young  women,  bearing  trays  of 
trimmings  of  every  conceivable  kind.  In  the  background 
rose  a  grove  of  stands  supporting  hat-shapes,  bonnet- 
shapes,  toque-foundations,  the  skeletons  of  every  con- 
ceivable kind  of  headgear. 

Silent,  the  Marchioness  stood  before  her  disguised 
son. 

He  gently  put  up  his  eyeglass,  to  accommodate 
which  aid  to  vision  his  mask  had  been  specially 
designed,  and  motioned  her  to  the  sitter's  chair,  so  con- 
structed that  with  a  touch  of  Monsieur  Freddy's  foot 
upon  a  lever  it  would  revolve,  presenting  the  customer 
from  every  point  of  view.  He  touched  the  lever  now, 
and  chair  and  Marchioness  spun  slowly  around.  But 
for  the  presence  of  the  young  ladies  with  their  trays 
of  flowers,  plumes,  gauzes,  and  ribbons,  Freddy 's  mother 
could  have  screamed.  All  the  while  Freddy  remained 
silent,  absorbed  in  contemplation,  as  though  trying  to 
fix  upon  his  memory  features  seen  for  the  first  time.  At 
last  he  spoke. 

"Tall,"  he  said,  "and  inclined  to  a  becoming  embon- 
point. The  eyes  blue-gray,  the  hair  of  auburn  touched 
with  silver,  the  features,  of  the  Anglo-Roman  type,  some- 
what severe  in  outline,  the  chin A  hat  to  suit  this 

client" — he  spoke  in  a  sad,  sweet,  mournful  voice — 
"would  cost  five  guineas.  A  Marquise  shape,  of  broad- 
tail"— one  of  the  young  lady  attendants  placed  the 
shape  required  in  the  artist's  hands — "the  brim  lined 


"FREDDY    &    CIE"  51 

with  a  rich  drapery  of  chenille  and  silk.  .  .  .  Needle 
and  thread,  Miss  Banks.  Thank  you.  ..."  His  fingers 
moved  like  white  lightning  as  he  deftly  wielded  the  fem- 
inine implement  and  snatched  his  materials  from  the 
boxes  proffered  in  succession  by  the  girls.  "Black  and 
white  tips  of  ostrich  falling  over  one  side  from  a  ring 
of  cut  steel,"  he  continued  in  the  same  dreamy  tone. 
"A  knot  of  point  d'Irlande,  with  a  heart  of  Neapolitan 
violets,  and ' ' — he  rose  from  the  divan  and  lightly  placed 
the  beautiful  completed  fabric  upon  the  Marchioness's 
head — "here  is  your  hat,  Madame.  Five  guineas.  Good- 
morning.  Next,  please!" 

Emotion  choked  his  mother's  utterance.  At  the  same 
moment  she  saw  herself  in  the  glass  silently  swung 
towards  her  by  one  of  the  attendants,  and  knew  that 
she  was  suited  to  a  marvel.  She  made  her  exit,  paid  her 
five  guineas,  and  returned  home,  embarrassed  by  the 
discovery  that  there  was  an  artist  in  the  family. 

One  thing  was  clear,  no  more  was  to  be  said.  The 
Maison  Freddy  became  the  morning  resort  of  the  smart 
world;  it  was  considered  the  thing  to  have  hats  made 
while  Society  waited.  True,  they  came  to  pieces  easily, 
not  being  copper-nailed  and  riveted,  so  to  speak;  but 
what  poems  they  were !  The  charming  conversation  of 
Monsieur  Freddy,  the  half -mystery  that  veiled  his  iden- 
tity, as  his  semi-mask  partially  concealed  his  fair  and 
smiling  countenance,  added  to  the  attractions  of  the 
Condover  Street  atelier. 

Money  rolled  in ;  the  banking  account  of  the  partners 
grew  plethoric ;  and  then  Mrs.  Vivianson,  in  spite  of  the 
claims  of  the  business  upon  her  time,  in  spite  of  the 
Platonic  standpoint  she  had  up  to  the  present  main- 
tained in  her  relations  with  Freddy,  began  to  be  jealous. 

' '  Or — no  !  I  will  not  admit  that  such  a  thing  is  pos- 
sible!" she  said,  as  she  looked  through  some  recent  en- 
tries in  the  day-book  of  the  firm.  "But  that  American 


52  "FREDDY    &    CIE" 

millionairess  girl  comes  too  often.  She  has  bought  a 
hat  every  day  for  three  weeks  past.  Good  for  business 
in  one  way,  but  bad  for  it  in  another.  If  he  should 
marry,  what  becomes  of  the  Maison  Freddy?" 

She  sighed  and  passed  between  the  curtains.  It  was 
the  slack  time  after  luncheon,  and  Freddy  was  enjoying 
a  moment's  interval.  Stretched  on  his  divan,  his  em- 
broidered slippers  elevated  in  the  air,  he  smoked  a  per- 
fumed cigarette  surrounded  by  the  materials  of  his  craft. 
He  smiled  at  Mrs.  Vivianson  as  she  entered,  and  then 
raised  his  aristocratic  eyebrows  in  surprise. 

"Has  anything  gone  wrong?  You  swept  in  as  trag- 
ically as  my  mother  when  she  comes  to  disown  me.  She 
does  it  regularly  every  week,  and  as  regularly  takes  me 
on  again."  He  exhaled  a  scented  cloud,  and  smiled 
once  more. 

"Freddy,"  said  Mrs.  Vivianson,  going  direct  to  the 
point, ' '  this  little  speculation  of  ours  has  turned  out  very 
well,  hasn't  it?" 

' '  Beyond  dreams ! ' '  acquiesced  Freddy.    She  went  on : 

"You  came  to  me  a  penniless  detrimental,  with  a  tal- 
ent of  which  nobody  guessed  that  anything  could  be 
made.  I  gave  this  gift  a  chance  to  develop.  I  set  you 
on  your  legs,  and " 

"Me  voicit  You  don't  want  me  to  rise  up  and  bless 
you,  do  you?"  said  Freddy,  with  half-closed  eyes. 
' '  Thanks  awfully,  you  know,  all  the  same ! ' ' 

"I  don't  know  that  I  want  thanks,  quite,"  said  Mrs. 
Vivianson.  "  I  've  had  back  every  penny  that  I  invested, 
and  pulled  off  a  bouncing  profit.  Your  share  amounts  to 
a  handsome  sum.  In  a  little  while  you  '11  be  able  to  pay 
your  debts." 

' '  I  shall  never  do  that ! ' '  said  Freddy,  with  feeling. 

"Marry,  and  leave  me — perhaps,"  went  on  Mrs. 
Vivianson.  A  shade  swept  over  her  face,  her  dark  eyes 
glowed  somberly,  the  lines  of  her  mouth  hardened. 


"FREDDY    &    CIE"  53 

"Keep  as  you  are!"  cried  Freddy,  rebounding  to  a 
sitting  position  on  the  divan. 

"Where's  that  new  Medici  shape  in  gold  rice-straw 
and  the  amber  crepe  chiffon,  and  the  orange  roses  with 
crimson  hearts  ? ' '  His  nimble  fingers  darted  hither  and 
thither,  his  eyes  shone,  and  his  cheeks  were  flushed  with 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  artist.  "A  tuft  of  black  and  yel- 
low cock's  feathers,  a  la  Mephistophele,"  he  cried,  "a 
topaz  buckle,  and  it  is  finished.  You  must  wear  with  it 
a  jabot  of  yellow  point  d'Alenqon.  It  is  the  hat  of  hats 
for  a  jealous  woman!" 

' '  How  dare  you ! ' '  cried  Mrs.  Vivianson.  But  Freddy 
did  not  seem  to  hear  her — he  was  rapt  in  the  contem- 
plation of  the  new  masterpiece ;  and  as  he  rose  and  grace- 
fully placed  it  on  his  partner 's  head,  Miss  Cornelia  Van- 
derdecken  was  ushered  in.  She  was  superbly  beautiful 
in  the  ivory-skinned,  jetty-locked,  slender  American 
style,  and  she  wore  a  hat  that  Freddy  had  made  the  day 
before,  which  set  off  her  charms  to  admiration. 

She  occupied  the  sitter's  chair  as  Mrs.  Vivianson 
glided  from  the  room,  and  Freddy's  blue  eyes  dwelt 
upon  her  worshipingly.  To  do  him  justice,  he  had  lost 
his  heart  before  he  learned  that  Cornelia  was  an  heiress. 
Now  words  escaped  him  that  brought  a  faint  pink  stain 
to  her  ivory  cheek. 

"Ah!"  he  cried  impulsively,  "you  are  ruining  my 
business. ' ' 

' '  Oh,  why,  Monsieur  Freddy  ?  Please  tell  me ! "  asked 
Miss  Vanderdecken,  with  naive  curiosity. 

"Because,"  said  Freddy,  while  a  bright  blush  showed 
beyond  the  limits  of  his  black  satin  mask,  "you  are  so 
beautiful  that  it  is  torture  to  make  hats  for  other  wom- 
en— since  I  have  seen  you." 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  Miss  Cornelia's  silk  foun- 
dations rustled  as  she  turned  resolutely  toward  the 
divan. 


54  "FREDDY    &    CIE" 

"I  can't  return  the  compliment,"  she  said,  "by  tell- 
ing you  that  it  is  torture  to  me  to  wear  hats  made  by 
any  other  man  since  I  have  seen  you,  for  other  men 
don't  make  hats,  and  I  can't  really  see  you  through 
that  thing  you  wear  over  your  face.  But " 

Her  voice  faltered,  and  Freddy,  with  a  gesture,  dis- 
missed his  lady  assistants.  Then  he  removed  his  mask. 
Their  eyes  met,  and  Cornelia  uttered  a  faint  exclama- 
tion. 

' '  Oh  my !    You  're  just  like  him ! ' ' 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  Freddy. 

"I  can't  quite  say,  because  I  don't  know,"  returned 
Cornelia ;  ' '  but  all  girls  have  their  ideals,  from  the  time 
they  wear  Swiss  pinafores  to  the  time  they  wear  forty- 
eight  inch  corsets ;  and  I  won 't  deny ' ' — her  voice  trem- 
bled—"but  what  you  fill  the  biU.  My!  What  are 
you  doing?" 

For  Freddy  had  grasped  his  materials  and  was  mak- 
ing a  hat.  It  was  of  palest  blush  tulle,  with  a  crown  of 
pink  roses,  and  an  aigrette  of  flamingo  plumes  was 
fastened  with  a  Cupid 's  bow  in  pink  topaz. 

"Love's  first  confession,"  the  young  man  murmured 
as  he  bit  off  the  last  thread,  "should  be  whispered  be- 
neath a  hat  like  this."  And  he  gracefully  placed  it  on 
Cornelia's  raven  hair. 

Mrs.  Vivianson,  her  ear  to  the  keyhole  of  a  side  door, 
quivered  from  head  to  foot  with  rage  and  jealousy. 
Time  was  when  he,  a  penniless,  high-bred  boy,  had  im- 
plored her  to  marry  him.  Now — her  blood  boiled  at 
the  remembrance  of  the  half  hint,  the  veiled  suggestion 
she  had  made,  that  they  should  unite  in  a  more  intimate 
partnership  than  that  already  consolidated.  With  her 
jealousy  was  mingled  despair.  As  long  as  Freddy  and 
his  hats  remained  the  fashion,  the  shop  would  pay,  and 
pay  royally.  There  had  as  yet  occurred  no  abatement 
in  the  onflow  of  aristocratic  patronage.  To  avow  his 


"FREDDY    &    CIE"  55 

identity — never  really  doubted — to  become  an  engaged 
man,  meant  ruin  to  the  business.  The  blood  hummed  in 
her  head.  She  clung  to  the  door-handle  and  entered,  as 
Freddy,  with  real  grace  and  eloquence,  pleaded  his  suit. 

"And  you  are  really  a  Marquis's  second  son,  though 
you  make  hats  for  money  ? ' '  she  heard  Cornelia  say.  ' '  I 
always  guessed  you  had  real  old  English  blood  in  you, 
from  the  tone  of  your  voice  and  the  shape  of  your  fin- 
ger-nails, even  when  you  wore  a  mask.  And  it  seemed 
as  though  I  couldn't  do  anything  but  buy  hats.  I  sur- 
mised it  was  vanity  at  the  time,  but  now  I  guess  it  was 
—love!" 

"My  dearest!"  said  Freddy,  bending  his  blonde  head 
over  her  jeweled  hands.  "My  Cornelia!  I  will  make 
you  a  hat  every  day  when  you  are  married.  Ah !  I  have 
it !  You  shall  wear  one  of  mine  to  go  away  in  upon  the 
day  we  are  wed,  the  inspiration  of  a  bridegroom,  thought 
out  and  achieved  between  the  church  door  and  the  chan- 
cel. What  an  idea  for  a  lover !  "What  an  advertisement 
for  the  shop!"  His  blue  eyes  beamed  at  the  thought. 

But  Cornelia's  face  fell. 

' '  I  don 't  know  how  to  say  it,  dear,  but  we  shall  never 
be  married.  Poppa  is  perfectly  rocky  on  one  point,  and 
that  is  that  the  man  I  hitch  up  with  shall  never  have 
dabbled  as  much  as  his  little  finger  in  trade.  'You  have 
dollars  enough  to  buy  one  of  the  real  high-toned  sort,' 
he  keeps  saying,  'and  if  blood  royal  is  to  be  got  for 
money,  Silas  P.  Vanderdecken  is  the  man  to  get  it. 
So  run  along  and  play,  little  girl,  till  the  right  man 
comes  along.'  And  I  know  he'll  say  you're  the  wrong 
one!" 

Freddy's  complexion,  grown  transparent  from  excess 
of  emotion  and  lack  of  exercise,  paled  to  an  ivory  hue. 
His  sedentary  life  had  softened  his  condition  and  un- 
strung his  nerves.  He  adored  Cornelia,  and  had  looked 
forward  to  a  lifetime  spent  in  adorning  her  beauty  with 


56  "FREDDY    &    CIB" 

bonnets  of  the  most  becoming  shapes  and  designs.  Now 
that  a  coarse  Transatlantic  millionaire  with  soft  shirt- 
fronts  and  broad-leaved  felt  hats  might  step  in  and  shat- 
ter for  ever  his  beautiful  dream  of  union,  bitter  revul- 
sion seized  him.  He  feared  his  fate.  What  was  he? 
The  second  son  of  a  poor  Marquis,  with  a  particularly 
healthy  elder  brother.  He  looked  upon  the  chiffons,  the 
flowers  and  the  feathers  that  surrounded  him,  and  felt 
that  the  hopes  of  a  heart  reared  upon  so  frail  a  basis 
were  insecure  indeed.  Then  his  old  blood  rallied  to  his 
heart,  and  he  rose  from  the  divan  and  clasped  the  now 
tearful  Cornelia  to  his  breast. 

"Go,  my  dearest/'  he  said,  "tell  all  to  your  father — 
plead  for  me.  Do  not  write  or  wire — bring  me  his  ver- 
dict to-morrow.  Meanwhile  I  will  compose  two  hats. 
Each  shall  be  a  masterpiece — a  swan-song  of  my  Art. 
One  is  to  be  worn  if" — his  voice  broke — "if  I  am  to  be 
happy;  the  other  if  I  am  fated  to  despair.  Go  now,  for 
I  must  be  alone  to  carry  out  my  inspiration." 

And  Cornelia  went.  Then  Freddy,  sternly  refusing 
to  receive  any  more  customers  that  day,  set  himself  to 
the  completion  of  his  task.  Before  very  long  both  hats 
were  actualities.  Hat  Number  One  was  an  Empire 
shape  of  dead-leaf  beaver,  the  crown  draped  with  dove- 
colored  silk,  a  spray  of  sere  oak-leaves  and  rue  in  front, 
a  fine  scarf  of  black  lace,  partly  to  veil  the  face  of  the 
wearer,  thrown  back  over  one  side  of  the  brim  and 
caught  with  a  clasp  of  black  pearls  set  in  oxidized  sil- 
ver. It  breathed  of  chastened  woe  and  temperate  sad- 
ness, and  was  to  be  worn  if  Papa  Vanderdecken  per- 
sisted in  refusing  to  accept  Freddy  as  a  suitor. 

But  Hat  Number  Two!  It  was  of  the  palest  blue 
guipure  straw,  draped  with  coral  silk  and  Cluny  lace. 
In  front  was  a  spray  of  moss  rosebuds  and  forget-me- 
nots,  dove's  wings  of  burnished  hues  were  set  at  either 
side.  It  was  the  very  hat  to  be  worn  by  a  bringer  of 


"FREDDY    &    CIE"  57 

joyful  news,  the  ideal  hat  under  which  might  be  appro- 
priately exchanged  the  first  kiss  of  plighted  passion. 
Upon  it  Freddy  pinned  a  fairy-like  card,  white  and 
gold-edged. 

"If  I  am  to  be  happy,  wear  this,"  was  written  upon 
it;  and  upon  a  buff  card  attached  to  the  hat  of  rejec- 
tion he  inscribed :  ' '  Wear  this,  if  I  am  to  be  unhappy. ' ' 
Then  he  closed  the  large  double  bandbox  in  which  he  had 
packed  the  hats,  breathed  a  kiss  into  the  folds  of  the 
silver  paper,  and,  ringing  the  bell,  bade  a  messenger 
carry  the  box  to  the  hotel  at  which  Cornelia  Vander- 
decken  was  staying,  and  where,  millionairess  though  she 
was,  she  was  still  content  to  dress  with  the  help  of  a 
deft  maid  and  the  adoration  of  a  devoted  companion. 
Then  the  exhausted  artist  fell  back  on  the  divan.  Cor- 
nelia was  to  come  at  twelve  upon  the  morrow. 

' '  Then  I  shall  learn  my  fate, ' '  said  Freddy.  He  drove 
home  in  his  brougham,  and  passed  a  sleepless  night. 
The  fateful  hour  found  him  again  upon  his  divan,  sur- 
rounded by  the  materials  of  his  craft,  waiting  feverishly 
for  Cornelia. 

The  curtains  parted.  He  started  up  at  the  rustling 
of  her  gown  and  the  jingling  of  her  bangles.  Horror! 
she  wore  the  somber  hat  of  sorrow,  though  under  its 
shadow  her  face  was  curiously  bright. 

She  advanced  toward  Freddy.  He  reeled  and  stag- 
gered backward,  raised  his  white  hand  to  his  delicate 
throat,  and  fell  fainting  amongst  his  cushions.  Cornelia 
screamed.  Mrs.  Vivianson  and  her  young  ladies  came 
hurrying  in.  As  the  stylish  widow  noted  Cornelia's 
headgear,  her  eyes  flashed  and  joy  was  in  her  face. 
Then  it  clouded  over,  for  she  knew  that  Papa  Vander- 
decken  had  been  coaxed  over,  and  Freddy  was  an  ac- 
cepted man.  My  reader,  being  exceptionally  acute,  will 
realize  that  the  jealous  woman  had  changed  the  tickets 
on  the  hats. 


58  "FREDDY    &    CIE" 

"Not  that  it  was  much  use,"  she  avowed  to  herself, 
as  she  entered  with  smelling-salts  and  burnt  feathers  to 
restore  Freddy's  consciousness.  "When  he  revives,  she 
will  tell  him  the  truth."  But  Freddy  only  regained 
consciousness  to  lose  it  in  the  ravings  of  delirium.  He 
had  an  attack  of  brain  fever,  in  which  he  wandered 
through  groves  of  bonnet  shops,  looking  unavailingly 
for  Cornelia.  And  then  came  the  crisis,  and  he  woke 
up  with  an  ice-bandage  on,  to  find  himself  in  his  bed- 
room at  Glanmire  House,  with  the  Marchioness  leaning 
over  him. 

"Mother,  my  heart  is  broken,"  said  the  boy — he  was 
really  little  more.  "The  world  exists  no  more  for  me. 
Let  me  make  my  last  hat — and  leave  it." 

"Oh,  Freddy,  don't  you  know  me?"  gasped  Cornelia 
in  the  background;  but  the  repentant  woman  who  had 
brought  about  all  this  trouble  drew  the  girl  away. 

' '  Even  good  news  broken  suddenly  to  him  in  his  weak 
state,"  said  Mrs.  Vivianson  in  a  rapid  whisper,  "may 
prove  fatal.  I  have  a  plan  which  may  gradually  en- 
lighten him." 

"I  trust  you,"  said  Cornelia.  "You  have  saved  his 
life  with  your  nursing.  Now  give  him  back  to  me ! ' ' 

"Hush!"  said  Mrs.  Vivianson. 

She  had  rapidly  dispatched  a  messenger  to  Condover 
Street,  and  now,  as  Freddy  again  opened  his  eyes  and 
repeated  his  piteous  request,  the  messenger  returned. 
Then  all  present  gathered  about  the  bed,  whose  inmate 
had  been  raised  upon  supporting  pillows.  It  was  a  queer 
scene  as  the  shaded  electric  light  above  the  bed  played 
upon  Freddy's  pallid  features,  showing  the  ravages  of 
sickness  there.  "Now!"  said  Mrs.  Vivianson.  She 
placed  the  milliner's  box  upon  the  bed,  and  Freddy's 
feeble  fingers,  diving  into  it,  drew  forth  a  spray  of  orange 
blossoms  and  a  diaphanous  cloud  of  filmy  lace. 

"Black — not  white!"  Freddy  gasped  brokenly.    "It 


"FREDDY    &    CIE"  59 

is  a  mourning  toque  that  I  must  make.     Let  Cornelia 
wear  it  at  my  funeral. ' ' 

' '  Cornelia  will  not  wear  it  at  your  funeral,  Freddy, ' ' 
said  Mrs.  Vivianson,  bending  over  him;  "for  she  is 
going  to  marry  you,  not  to  bury  you."  And,  drawing 
the  tearful  girl  to  Freddy's  side,  she  flung  over  her 
beautiful  head  the  bridal  veil,  and  crowned  her  with  a 
wreath  of  orange  blossoms.  And  as,  with  a  feeble  cry, 
Freddy  opened  his  wasted  arms  and  Cornelia  fell  into 
them,  Mrs.  Vivianson,  her  work  of  atonement  completed, 
pressed  the  offered  hand  of  Freddy's  mother,  and  hur- 
ried out  of  the  room  and  out  of  the  story.  Which  ends, 
as  stories  ought,  happily  for  the  lovers,  who  are  now 
honeymooning  in  the  Riviera. 


UNDER  THE  ELECTRICS 

A  SHOW-LADY  IS  ELOQUENT 

"REALLY,  my  dear,  I  think  the  man  has  gone  a  bit  too 
far.  Writes  a  play  with  a  fast  young  lady  in  the  Pro- 
fession for  the  heroine — and  where  he  got  his  model 
from  I  can't  imagine — and  then  writes  to  the  papers 
to  explain,  accounting  for  her  past  being  a  bit  off  color 
— turiggez-vous? — by  saying  she  isn't  a  Chorus-lady,  only 
a  Show-lady. 

"Gracious!  I'm  short  of  a  bit  of  wig-paste,  my  pet 
complexion-color  No.  2.  Any  lady  present  got  half  a 
stick  to  lend?  I  want  to  look  my  special  best  to-night: 
somebody  in  the  stalls,  don 'tcherknow !  Chuck  it  over! 
— mind  that  bottle  of  Bass !  I  'm  aware  beer  is  bad  for 
the  liver,  but  such  a  nourishing  tonic,  isn  't  it  ?  When  I 
get  back  to  the  theater,  tired  after  a  sixty-mile  ride  in 
somebody's  20  h.p.  Gohard — twiggez? — a  tumbler  with 
a  good  head  to  it  makes  my  dear  old  self  again  in  a 
twink. 

"Half -hour?  That  new  call-boy  must  be  spoke  to  on 
the  quiet,  dears.  Such  manners,  putting  his  nasty  little 
head  right  into  the  show-ladies'  dressing-room  when  he 
calls.  I  suggest,  girlies,  that  when  we're  all  running 
down  for  the  general  entrance  in  the  First  Act — and 
that  staircase  on  the  prompt  side  is  the  narrowest  I 
ever  struck — I  suggest  that  when  we  meet  that  little 
brute — he's  always  coming  up  to  give  the  principals  the 
last  call — I  suggest  that  each  girl  bumps  his  head  against 

60 


UNDER    THE    ELECTRICS  61 

the  wall  as  she  goes  by!  That'll  make  twenty  bumps, 
and  do  him  lots  of  good,  too ! 

' '  Miss  de  la  Regy,  dear,  I  lent  you  my  blue  pencil  last 
night.  Hand  it  over,  there's  a  good  old  sort,  when 
you've  given  the  customary  languish  to  your  eyes,  love. 
What  are  you  saying  ?  Stage-Manager 's  order  that  we  're 
not  to  grease-black  our  eyelashes  so  much,  as  some  peo- 
ple say  it  looks  fair  hideous  from  the  front?  Tell  him 
to  consume  his  own  smoke  next  time  he's  in  a  beast  of 
a  cooker.  Why  don't  he  tell  her  to  mind  her  own  busi- 
ness?— I'm  sure  she's  old  enough!  What  I  say  is,  I've 
always  been  accustomed  to  put  lots  on  mine,  and  I  don't 
see  myself  altering  my  usual  make-up  at  this  time  o' 
day.  Do  you  ?  Not  much  ? — I  rather  thought  so.  What 
else  does  he  say  ? — he  11  be  obliged  if  we  '11  wear  the  chin- 
strap  of  our  Hussar  busbies  down  instead  of  tucked  up 
inside  'em?  What  I  say  is — and  I'm  sure  you'll  agree 
with  me,  girls — that  it's  bad  enough  to  have  to  wear  a 
fur  hat  with  a  red  bag  hangin'  over  the  top,  without 
marking  a  young  lady 's  face  in  an  unbecoming  way  with 
a  chin-strap.  Also  he  insists — what  price  him? — he  in- 
sists on  our  leavin'  our  Bridgehands  down  in  the  dress- 
ing-room, and  not  coming  on  the  stage  with  'em  stuck 
in  the  fronts  of  our  tunics,  in  defiance  of  the  Army  Reg- 
ulations? Rot  the  Regulations,  and  bother  the  Stage- 
Manager  !  How  she  must  have  been  .nagging  at  him, 
mustn't  she? — because  he  can  be  quite  too  frightfully 
nice  and  gentlemanly  when  he  likes.  I  will  speak  up 
for  him  that  much.  Not  that  I  ever  was  a  special  fa- 
vorite— I  keep  myself  to  myself  too  much.  Different 
to  some  people  not  so  far  off.  Twiggez  ?  I  've  my  pride, 
that 's  what  I  say,  if  I  am  a  Show-girl ! 

"Thirty-five  shillings  a  week,  with  matinees — you 
can 't  say  it 's  much  to  look  like  a  lady  on,  can  you  now  ? 
No,  but  what  a  girl  with  taste  and  clever  fingers,  and 
a  knack  of  getting  what  she  wants  at  a  remnant  sale — 


62  UNDER    THE    ELECTRICS 

and  the  things  those  forward  creatures  in  black  cash- 
mere Princess  robes  try  to  shove  down  a  lady-customer 's 
throat  are  generally  the  things  she  could  buy  elsewhere 
new  for  less  money — not  but  that  a  girl  with  her  head 
screwed  on  the  right  way  can  turn  out  in  first-class  style 
for  less  than  some  people  would  think,  and  get  credit  in 
some  quarters  we  know  of — this  is  a  beastly,  spiteful 
world,  my  dear — for  taking  presents  right  and  left. 

''Now,  who  has  been  and  hung  my  wig  on  the  electric 
light?  If  the  person  considers  that  a  practical  joke,  it 
shows — that 's  what  I  say ! — it  shows  that  she 's  descend- 
ed from  the  lowest  circles.  I  won 't  pretend  I  don 't  sus- 
pect who  has  been  up  to  her  little  games  again,  and, 
though  I  should,  as  a  lady,  be  sorry  to  behave  other- 
wise, I  must  caution  her,  unless  she  wishes  to  find  her 
military  boots  full  of  prepared  chalk  one  o '  these  nights, 
to  quit  and  chuck  'em. 

"Quarter  of  an  hour!  That  was  clever  of  you,  Miss 
Enderville  dear,  to  shut  that  imp's  head  in  the  door 
before  he  could  pop  it  back  again.  "Well,  there !  if  you 
haven't  got  another  diamond  ring!  .  .  .  Left  at  the 
stage-door  office,  addressed  to  you,  by  a  perfect  stranger, 
who  hasn't  even  enclosed  a  line.  .  .  .  Perhaps  you'll 
meet  him  in  a  better  land,  dear ;  he  seems  a  lot  too  shy 
for  this  one.  Not  that  I  admire  the  three-speeds-forward 
sort  of  fellow,  but  there  is  such  a  thing  as  being  too 
backward  in  coming  up  to  the  scratch — twig? 

"I  ought  to  know  something  about  that,  considering 
which  my  life  was  spoiled — never  you  mind  how  long 
ago,  because  dates  are  a  rotten  nuisance — by  one  of 
those  hang-backers  who  want  the  young  woman — the 
young  lady,  I  should  say — to  make  all  the  pace  for  both 

sides.  It  was  during  the  three-hundred  night  run  of 

There!  I've  forgotten  the  name  of  the  gay  old  show, 
but  Miss  de  la  Begy  was  in  it  with  me — one  of  the  Tall 
Eleven,  weren't  you,  Miss  de  la  Regy  dear?  And  we 


UNDER    THE    ELECTRICS  63 

were  Anchovian  Brigands  in  the  First  Act — Sardinian 
Brigands,  did  you  say  ?  I  knew  it  had  something  to  do 
with  the  beginning  of  a  dinner  at  the  Savoy — and  Marie 
Antoinette  gentlemen  in  powdered  wigs  and  long,  gold- 
headed  canes  in  the  Second,  and  in  the  Final  Tableau 
British  tars  in  pink  silk  fleshings,  pale  blue  socks,  and 
black  pumps,  and  Union  Jacks.  I  remember  how  I  fan- 
cied myself  in  that  costume,  and  how  frightfully  it 
fetched  him. 

"Me  keeping  my  eyes  very  much  to  myself  in  those 
days,  new  to  the  Profession  as  I  was,  I  didn't  tumble  to 
the  fact  of  having  made  a  regular  conquest  till  a  girl 
older  than  me  twigged  and  gave  me  a  hint — then  I  saw 
him  sitting  in  the  stalls,  dear,  if  you'll  believe  me! — 
dash  it !  I  've  dropped  my  powder-puff  in  the  water- jug ! 
— with  his  mouth  wide  open — not  a  becoming  thing,  but 
a  sign  of  true  feeling. 

"He  was  fair  and  pale  and  slim,  with  large  blue  eyes, 
and  lovely  linen,  and  a  diamond  stud  in  the  shirt-front, 
and  a  gardenia  in  the  button-hole  was  good  form  then, 
and  the  white  waistcoats  were  twill.  To-day  his  waist- 
coat would  be  heliotrope  watered  silk,  and  his  shirt- 
front  embroidered  cambric,  and  if  he  showed  more  than 
an  inch  of  platinum  watch-chain,  he'd  be  outcast  for 
ever  from  his  kind.  Bless  you!  men  think  as  much  of 
being  in  the  fashion  as  we  do,  take  my  word  for  it, 
dear. 

"He  kept  his  mouth  open,  as  I've  said,  all  through 
the  evening,  only  putting  the  knob  of  his  stick  into  it 
sometimes — silver  knobs  were  all  the  go  then — and  never 
took  his  eyes  off  me.  'You've  made  a  victim,  Daisy/ 
says  one  of  the  girls  as  we  did  a  step  off  to  the  chorus, 
two  by  two,  'and  don't  you  forget  to  make  hay  while 
the  sun  shines!'  I  thanked  her  to  keep  her  advice  to 
herself,  and  moved  proudly  away,  but  my  heart  was 
doing  ragtime  under  my  corsets,  and  no  mistake  about 


64  UNDER    THE    ELECTRICS 

it.  When  we  ran  downstairs  after  the  General  En- 
trance and  the  Final  Tableau,  I  took  off  as  much  make- 
up as  I  thought  necessary,  and  dressed  in  a  hurry,  wish- 
ing I  'd  come  to  business  in  a  more  stylish  get-up.  And 
as  I  came  out  between  the  swing-leaves  of  the  stage-door, 
I  saw  him  outside  in  an  overcoat  with  a  sable  collar,  a 
crush  hat,  and  a  white  muffler.  Dark  as  the  light  was, 
he  knew  me,  and  I  recognized  him,  his  mouth  being  ajar, 
same  as  during  the  show,  and  his  eyes  being  fixed  in  the 
same  intense  gaze,  which  I  don't  blush  to  own  gave  me 
a  sensation  like  what  you  have  when  the  shampooing 
young  woman  at  the  Turkish  Baths  stands  you  up  in 
the  corner  of  a  room  lined  with  hot  tiles  and  fires  cold 
water  at  you  from  the  other  end  of  it  out  of  a  rubber 
hose. 

"  'Well,  have  you  found  his  name  out  yet,  Daisy,  old 
girl?'  was  the  question  in  the  dressing-room  next  night. 
I  felt  red-hot  with  good  old-crusted  shame,  when  I  found 
out  that  it  was  generally  known  he'd  followed  me  down 
Wellington  Street  to  my  'bus — not  a  Vanguard,  but  a 
gee-gee-er  in  those  days — and  stood  on  the  splashy  curb 
to  see  me  get  in,  without  offering  an  utterance — which 
I  dare  say  if  he  had  I  should  have  shrieked  for  a  police- 
man, me  being  young  and  shy.  No,  I'd  no  idea  what 
his  name  was,  nor  nothing  more  than  that  he  looked  the 
complete  swell,  and  was  evidently  a  regular  goner — 
twiggez? — on  the  personal  charms  of  yours  truly. 

' '  If  you  '11  believe  me,  there  wasn  't  a  line  or  a  rosebud 
waiting  for  me  at  the  stage-door  next  night,  though  he 
sat  in  the  same  stall  and  stared  in  the  same  marked  way 
all  through  the  evening.  Perhaps  he  might  for  ever  have 
remained  anonymous,  but  that  the  girl  who  dressed  on 
my  left  hand — quite  a  rattlingly  good  sort,  but  with  a 
passion  for  eating  pickled  gherkins  out  of  the  bottle  with 
a  fork  during  all  the  stage  waits  and  intervals  such  as 
I've  never  seen  equaled — that  girl  happened  to  know 


UNDER    THE    ELECTRICS  65 

the  man — middle-aged  toff,  with  his  head  through  his 
hair  and  a  pane  in  his  eye — who  was  in  the  stall  next 
my  conquest  the  night  before.  She  applied  the  pump — 
twiggez? — and  learned  the  name  and  title  of  one  I  shall 
always  remember,  even  though  things  never  came  to 
nothing  definite  betwixt  us — twig? 

"He  was  a  Viscount — sable  and  not  musquash — the 
genuine  article,  not  dyed  or  made  up  of  inferior  skins; 
blow  on  the  hairs  and  hold  it  to  the  light,  you  will  not 
see  the  fatally  regular  line  that  bears  testimony  to  de- 
ception. Lord  Polkstone,  eldest  son  of  the  Earl  of 

Well,  there,  if  I  haven't  been  and  forgotten  his  dadda's 
title !  Rolling  in  money,  and  an  only  boy.  It  was  less 
usual  then  than  now  for  a  peer  to  pick  a  life-partner 
among  the  Show-girls,  but  just  to  keep  us  bright  and 
chirpy,  the  thing  was  occasionally  done — twig?  And 
there  Lord  Polkstone  sat  night  after  night,  matinee  after 
matinee,  in  the  same  place  in  the  stalls,  with  his  mouth 
open  and  his  large  blue  eyes  nailed  upon  the  features 
of  yours  truly.  Whenever  I  came  out  after  the  show, 
there  he  was  waiting,  but  it  went  no  farther.  Pitying 
his  bashfulness,  I  might — I  don't  say  I  would,  but  I 
might — have  passed  a  ladylike  remark  upon  the  weather, 
and  broken  the  ice  that  way.  But  every  girl  in  my 
room — the  Tall  Eleven  dressed  in  one  together — every 
girl 's  unanimous  advice  was, '  Let  him  speak  first,  Daisy. ' 
Then  they  'd  simply  split  with  laughing  and  have  to  wipe 
their  eyes.  Me,  being  young  and  unsophis — I  forget  how 
to  spell  the  rest  of  that  word,  but  it  means  jolly  fresh 
and  green — never  suspected  them  of  pulling  my  leg.  I 
took  their  crocodileish  advice,  and  waited  for  Lord  Polk- 
stone to  speak.  My  dear,  I  've  wondered  since  how  it  was 
I  never  suspected  the  truth!  Weeks  went  by,  and  the 
affair  had  got  no  farther.  Young  and  inexperienced  as 
I  was,  I  could  see  by  his  eye  that  his  was  no  Sunday- 
to-Monday  affection,  but  a  real,  lasting  devotion  of  the 


66  UNDER    THE    ELECTRICS 

washable  kind.  Knowing  that,  helped  me  to  go  on  wait- 
ing, though  I  was  dying  to  hear  his  voice.  But  he  never 
spoke  nor  wrote,  though  several  other  people  did,  and, 
my  attention  being  otherwise  taken  up,  I  treated  those 
fellows  with  more  than  indifference. 

' '  I  remember  the  Commissionaire — an  obliging  person 
when  not  under  the  influence  of  whisky — telling  me  that 
what  he  called  a  rum  party  had  left  several  bouquets 
at  the  stage-door — no  name  being  on  them,  and  without 
saying  who  for — which  seemed  uncommonly  queer. 
Afterward  it  flashed  on  me — but  there !  never  mind ! 

"If  I  had  ever  said  a  word  to  that  dear  when  his  im- 
ploring eyes  met  mine,  and  lingered  on  the  curb  when 
I  heard  his  faithful  footsteps  following  me  to  my  'bus, 
the  mask  would  have  fallen,  dear,  and  the  blooming  mys- 
tery been  brought  to  light.  But  it  shows  the  kind  of 
girl  I  was  in  those  days,  that  with  '  Good-evening, '  ready 
on  the  tip  of  my  tongue,  I  shut  my  mouth  and  didn  't  say 
it.  If  I  had,  I  might  have  been  a  Countess  now,  sit- 
ting in  a  turret  and  sewing  tapestry,  or  walking  about 
a  large  estate  in  a  tailor-made  gown,  showing  happy  cot- 
tagers how  to  do  dairy-work. 

"That's  my  romance,  dear — is  there  a  drop  of  Bass 
left  in  that  bottle  ?  I  've  a  thirst  on  me  I  wouldn  't  sell 
for  four  'd.'  Spite  and  malice  on  the  part  of  some 
I  shall  not  condescend  to  accuse,  helplessness  on  his  part 
— poor,  devoted  dear! — and  ignorance  on  mine,  nipped 
it  in  the  bud;  and  when  he  vanished  from  the  stalls — 
didn't  turn  up  at  the  stage-door — appearing  in  the  Royal 
Box,  one  night  I  shall  never  forget,  with  two  young  girls 
in  white  and  a  dowager  in  a  diamond  fender,  I  knew 
he'd  given  up  the  chase,  and  with  it  all  thoughts  of 
poor  little  downy  Me. 

"We  were  singing  a  deadly  lively  chorus  about  being 
'jolly,  confoundedly  jolly!'  and  I  stood  and  sang  and 
sniveled  with  the  black  running  off  my  eyes.  For  even  to 


UNDER    THE    ELECTRICS  67 

my  limited  capacity,  and  without  the  sneering  whispers 
of  a  treacherous  snake-in-the-grass,  whose  waist  I  had  to 
keep  my  arm  round  all  the  time,  me  playing  boy  to  her 
girl,  first  couple  proscenium  right,  next  the  Royal  Box, 
where  he  sat  with  those  three  women — I  could  see  how 
I  'd  lost  the  prize.  One  glance  at  Lord  Polkstone — prat- 
tling away  on  his  fingers  to  the  best-looking  of  those  two 
girls,  neither  of  'em  being  over  and  above  what  I  should 
call  passable — one  glance  revealed  the  truth. 

' '  He  was  deaf  and  dumb ! — and  I  had  been  waiting  a 
week  of  Sundays  for  him  to  speak  out  first.  Hugging 
my  happy  love  and  my  innocent  hope  to  my  heart  of 
hearts — there's  an  exercise  in  h's  for  any  person  whose 
weakness  lies  in  the  letter — I'd  been  waiting  for  what 
couldn't  never  come.  Why  hadn 't  he  have  wrote ?  That 
question  I've  often  asked  myself,  and  the  answer  is 
that  none  of  them  who  could  have  told  Lord  Polkstone 
my  name  could  understand  the  deaf  and  dumb  alpha- 
bet. 

"Oh!  it  was  a  piercing  shock — a  freezing  blow  I've 
never  got  over,  dear,  nor  never  shall.  He  married  that 
girl  in  white,  that  artful  thing  who  could  understand 
his  finger  language  and  talk  back. 

' '  Think  what  a  blessing  I  lost  in  a  husband  who  could 
never  contradict  or  shout  at  me.  And  I  feel  I  could  have 
been  an  honor  to  the  Peerage,  and  worn  a  coronet  like 
one  born  to  it.  I'll  stand  another  Bass,  dear,  if  you'll 
tell  the  dresser  to  fetch  it;  or  will  you  have  a  brandy- 
and-Polly?  You've  hit  it,  dear,  the  girls  were  shocking 
spiteful,  but  I  was  jolly  well  a  lot  too  retiring  and  shy. 
I've  got  over  the  weakness  since,  of  course,  and  now  I 
positively  make  a  point  of  speaking  if  one  of  'em  seems 
quite  unusually  hangbacky. 

"  'Who  knows,'  I  say  to  myself,  'perhaps  he's  deaf 
and  dumb!'  " 


"VALCOURT'S  GRIN" 

THE  lovely  and  high-born  relict  of  a  decrepit  and  enor- 
mously wealthy  commoner,  she  had  sustained  her  hus- 
band's loss  with  a  becoming  display  of  sorrow,  and 
passed  with  exquisite  grace  and  discretion  through  the 
successive  phases  of  the  toilet  indicative  of  connubial 
woe.  From  a  lovely  chrysalis  swathed  in  crape  she  had 
changed  to  a  dove-colored  moth ;  the  moth  had  become  a 
heliotrope  butterfly,  on  the  point  of  changing  its  wings 
for  a  brighter  pair,  when  the  post  brought  her  a  letter 
from  one  of  her  dearest  friends.  It  bore  the  Zurich 
postmark,  and  ran  as  follows : 

"HOTEL  SCHWEBT, 

"APPENBAD, 
"June  18th. 

"I  wonder,  dear,  whether  you  would  mind  being 
troubled  with  Val  for  a  day?  He  is  coming  up  from 
Seaton  next  Thursday  on  dentist's  leave,  and  one  does 
not  care  that  a  boy  of  sixteen — one  can  consider  Val  a 
boy  without  stretching  the  imagination  overmuch — 
should  be  drifting  anchorless  in  town.  You  will  find 
him  grown  and  developed.  .  .  .  You  see,  I  take  it  for 
granted,  in  my  own  rude  way,  that  you  have  already 
said  'Yes'  to  my  request.  .  .  .  The  views  here  are  di- 
vine— such  miles  of  eye-flight  over  the  Lake  of  Con- 
stance and  the  Rhine  Valley!  To  quote  poor  Dynham, 
who  suffered  much  from  the  whey-cure,  'every  pros- 
pect pleases,  and  only  man  is  bile.'  Kiss  Val  for  me. 
My  dear,  the  thought  of  his  future  is  a  continual  anxi- 

68 


"VALCOURT'S    GRIN"  69 

ety.  The  title  to  keep  up,  and  an  income  of  barely  eight 
thousand  pounds.  ...  '  Marry  him, '  you  will  say ;  but 
to  whom?  American  heiresses  are  beginning  to  have  an 
exorbitant  idea  of  their  own  value,  and  then  Val's  is  an 
open,  simple  nature — unworldly  to  a  degree!  Not  that 
I,  his  mother,  could  wish  him  otherwise,  but — you  will 
understand  and  sympathize,  I  know!  And  boys  are  so 
easily  molded  by  a  woman  who  has  charm !  If  you  could 
drop  a  word  here  and  there,  calculated  to  bring  him  to 
a  sense  of  the  responsibility  that  rests  upon  his  young 
shoulders,  the  duty  of  restoring  the  diminished  fortunes 
of  his  house  by  a  really  sensible  marriage.  ...  I  have 
dinned  and  dinned,  but  I  fear  without  much  result. 

"Ever  yours, 

"G.  D.  E.  V.  T. 

"Please  address  Val,  'Care  of  Rev.  H.  Buntham,  Sea- 
ton  College,  near  Grindsor.' — G. 

"Buntham  is  the  house-master.  V.  says  he  'under- 
stands the  fellows  thoroughly.'  Such  a  tribute,  I  think, 
to  a  tutor  from  a  boy. — G." 

So  a  dainty  monogrammed  and  coroneted  note,  on 
heliotrope  paper,  with  a  thin  but  decided  bordering  of 
black,  was  sent  off  to  the  Marquis  of  Valcourt,  and  Val- 
court's  hostess  in  prospective  consulted  a  male  relative 
over  the  luncheon-table  as  to  the  most  approved  methods 
of  entertaining  a  schoolboy. 

' '  Heaps  of  indigestible  things  to  eat — sweet  for  choice 
— and  a  box  at  the  Gaiety  if  there's  a  matinee;  if  not, 
the  Hippodrome.  But  who's  the  boy?"  asked  the  male 
relative. 

"Lord  Valcourt,  Geraldine's  eldest." 

The  male  relative  pursed  up  his  lips  into  the  shape  of 
a  whistle,  and  helped  himself  to  a  cutlet  in  expressive 
silence. 


70  "VALCOURT'S    GRIN" 

"Geraldine  is  devoted  to  him.  He  seems  to  have  a 
delightful  nature,  to  be  quite  an  ideal  son!" 

' '  That  young — that  young  fellow ! ' ' 

"You  have  met  him,  haven't  you?" 

"I  have  had  that  privilege.  I  was  one  of  the  house- 
party  at  Traye  last  September." 

"Geraldine  asked  me,  but  of  course  it  was  out  of  the 
question.  ..." 

' '  Of  course,  poor  Mussard  's  death — quite  too  recent, ' ' 
murmured  the  male  relative,  taking  green  peas. 

Poor  Mussard 's  charming  relict  drooped  her  long- 
lashed,  brown  eyes  pensively,  and  the  transparent  lace, 
that  covered  the  hiding-place  of  the  heart  that  had  been 
wrung  with  presumable  anguish  eighteen  months  be- 
fore, billowed  under  the  impulse  of  a  little  dutiful  sigh. 

"What  a  prize  for  some  lucky  beggar  with  a  big  title 
and  empty  pockets!"  reflected  the  male  relative,  who 
happened  to  be  a  brother,  and  could  therefore  contem- 
plate dispassionately.  "Thirty — and  looks  three-and- 
twenty  en  plein  jour,  without  a  pink-lined  sunshade." 
Aloud  he  said:  "So  you  are  to  entertain  Valcourt — 
Tuesday,  I  think  you  said?" 

"Thursday.  It  would  be  dear  of  you  to  come  and 
help  me,"  murmured  Mrs.  Mussard  plaintively. 

"It  would  afford  me  delight  to  do  so/'  returned  the 
male  relative  unblushingly,  "had  I  not  unfortunately 
an  engagement  to  see  a  man  about  a  fishing-tour  in  Nor- 
way. ' ' 

"Tiresome!  I  know  so  little  about  modern  school- 
boys!" murmured  Mrs.  Mussard. 

' '  The  less  you  know  about  'em,  my  dear  Vivienne,  the 
better." 

"Having  been  a  boy  yourself,"  the  speaker's  sister 
responded,  with  gentle  acerbity,  "you  are  naturally  prej- 
udiced. But,  going  by  Geraldine 's  account,  Valcourt 
is  not  the  ordinary  kind  of  boy  at  all.  Indeed,  I  have 


"VALCOURT'S    GRIN"  71 

promised  her  to  take  him  in  hand,  and  impart  a  few 
viva  voce  lessons  in  savoir  faire  and  worldly  wisdom." 

"Have  you?  By  Jove,  Vivie,  you've  taken  something 
upon  yourself!  'Angels  rush  in  where  demons  fear  to 
tread.  .  .  .'  I'm  mulling  the  quotation,  but  in  its  per- 
fect state  it  isn't  complimentary.  May  Valcourt  profit 
by  your  instructions  on  Thursday!" 

Thursday  came,  and  with  it  Valcourt.  He  was  pleas- 
ing to  view;  a  clean-limbed,  broad-shouldered,  straight- 
featured,  pink-and-white  specimen  of  the  well-bred  Eng- 
lish youth  of  sixteen,  with  fair  hair  brushed  into  a  silky 
sweep  above  a  wide,  ingenuous  brow;  sleepy  gray-green 
eyes,  with  yellow  and  blue  reflections  in  them,  remind- 
ing the  beholder  of  tourmaline;  well-kept  hands,  pleas- 
ing manners,  and  a  wide,  innocent  grin  of  the  cherubic- 
angelic  kind,  never  more  in  evidence  than  when  Val- 
court was  engaged  in  some  pursuit  neither  angelic  nor 
cherubic.  Mrs.  Mussard,  at  first  sight,  was  conscious  of 
a  brief  maternal  inclination  to  kiss  him.  Geraldine's 
boy  was,  she  said  to  herself,  "a  perfect  duck!"  She 
subdued  the  osculatory  impulse,  shook  hands  with  the 
boy  cordially,  and  hoped  the  dentist  had  not  hurt  him. 

"No,  thanks  awfully,"  said  Valcourt,  with  his  cheru- 
bic grin.  The  teeth  revealed  were  exceedingly  white  and 
regular. 

' '  But  you  had  gas,  of  course  ? ' '  proceeded  his  hostess. 

"When  I  have  teeth  out  I  generally  do,"  said  Val- 
court carefully.  "They  always  give  you  half  a  guinea 
extra  allowance  for  gas,  so  most  of  the  fellows  ask  to 
have  it."  He  touched  his  waistcoat  pocket  meditatively 
as  he  spoke,  and  smiled,  or  rather  grinned,  again  so 
seraphically  that  Mrs.  Mussard  longed  to  tip  him  a  ten- 
pound  note.  She  gave  her  young  guest  a  sumptuous 
luncheon,  and,  not  without  serious  misgivings,  com- 
manded the  butler  to  produce  the  exhilarating  beverage 
of  champagne. 


72  "VALCOURT'S    GRIN" 

"A  little  sweet,  isn't  it?"  said  Valcourt  critically. 

"I  thought  that  you — that  is "  Mrs.  Mussard 

crumpled  her  delicate  eyebrows  in  embarrassment,  and 
the  butler  permitted  himself  the  shadow  of  a  smile. 

"Ladies  like  sweet  wine,"  remarked  Valcourt.  He 
refused  liqueur  with  coffee,  but  considered  Mrs.  Mus- 
sard's  cigarettes  "rather  mild." 

"I — I  don't  usually  smoke  that  brand,"  his  hostess 

explained.  "I — I  ordered  them  on  purpose  for " 

She  broke  off,  in  sheer  admiration  of  Valcourt 's  beauti- 
ful grin. 

The  matinee  for  which  she  had  secured  a  stage-box 
did  not  commence  until  three.  "Time  for  a  little  chat 
in  the  drawing-room, ' '  she  thought,  and  ran  over  in  her 
mind  a  list  of  the  things  dear  Geraldine  would  have 
wished  her  to  say.  She  bade  the  boy  sit  in  the  opposite 
angle  of  her  pet  sofa,  upholstered  in  shimmering  lily- 
leaf  green,  billowed  with  huge  puffy  pillows  of  apricot- 
yellow,  covered  with  cambric  and  Valenciennes.  She 
thought  the  harmony  well  completed  by  Valcourt 's  sleek 
fair  head  and  inscrutable  tourmaline  eyes,  and  wished 
for  the  first  time  that  poor  dear  Mussard  had  left  an 
heir.  Vague  as  the  yearning  was,  it  imparted  a  misty 
softness  to  her  brown  eyes,  and  caused  the  corners  of 
her  delicate  lips  to  quiver.  She  drew  a  little  nearer  to 
Valcourt,  and  laid  her  white  jeweled  hand  softly  upon 
the  muscular  young  arm,  firm  and  hard  beneath  an  un- 
commonly well-cut  sleeve. 

"My  dear  Valcourt,"  she  began. 

"Your  eyes  are  brown,  aren't  they?"  asked  Valcourt. 

' '  I  believe  they  are, ' '  murmured  Mrs.  Mussard.  ' '  My 
dear  boy,  I  trust  that " 

Valcourt  shut  his  own  sleepy  tourmaline  eyes  and 
sniffed,  a  long  rapturous  sniff.  "Mother  uses  attar  of 
violets.  It's  her  pet  scent.  Jolly,  but  not  so  nice  as 
yours.  What  is  it?"  He  sniffed  again.  " I  can 't  guess. 


"VALCOURT'S    GRIN"  73 

'Mph !  I  give  it  up.  I  know ! ' '  The  sleepy  tourmaline 
eyes  opened,  large  and  round  and  bright,  the  cherubic- 
angelic  smile  suffused  his  features.  "Why,  it  comes 
from  your  hair!" 

"People  have  said  that  before.  Oh!  never  mind  my 
hair!"  Mrs.  Mussard  was  not  displeased,  nevertheless. 
"Tell  me  how  you  progress  at  School.  You  know  your 
mother  is  my  dearest  friend.  I  should  so  much  like  you 
to  remember  that  and  confide  in  me,  almost  as  you  con- 
fide in  her!" 

A  solemn,  innocent  expression  came  over  Valcourt's 
face. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  during  which 
he  seemed  to  be  listening  to  choirs  of  angels  chanting 
to  the  accompaniment  of  celestial  harps.  "I'll  tell  you 
things  just  exactly  as  I  tell  'em  to  mother!" 

"You  dear!"  exclaimed  the  impulsive  young  widow, 
and  kissed  him.  The  smooth  elastic  skin,  brownish- 
pink  as  a  new-laid  egg,  and  dotted  with  sunny  little 
freckles,  grew  pinker  under  the  velvet  violence  of  the 
lady's  lips.  Valcourt  turned  the  other  cheek,  with  his 
cherub's  smile,  and  less  warmly,  because  more  con- 
sciously, his  mother's  dearest  friend  saluted  that  also. 

"Now,"  he  said,  in  his  boyish  voice,  "what  did  you 
want  me  to  tell  you  about  School?  I'm  not  a  sap  at 
books,  and  I  don't  spend  all  my  time  in  getting  up  my 
muscles.  I'm  just  an  ordinary  kind  of  fellow.  ...  I 
say,  how  pretty  your  nails  are!" 

He  took  up  one  of  Mrs.  Mussard 's  exquisitely  mani- 
cured hands,  and,  holding  it  to  the  tempered  sunlight 
that  stole  through  the  lace  blinds,  noted  with  apprecia- 
tive, if  infantile,  interest  the  pearly  hues  and  rosy  in- 
ward radiances,  the  nicks  and  dimples  of  the  wrist  and 
the  delicate  articulations  of  the  fingers.  Then,  with  a 
droll,  half-mischievous  twinkle  of  the  tourmaline  eye 
that  was  next  the  fair  widow,  he  bent  his  sleek,  fair  head 


74  "VALCOURT'S    GRIN" 

and  rubbed  his  cheek  against  the  pretty  hand  caress- 
ingly. 

' '  Silly  boy ! ' '  breathed  Mrs.  Mussard. 

"I  believe  I  am  an  awful  ass  sometimes,"  agreed  Val- 
court  composedly. 

"Who  says  so?" 

"My  tutor  and  heaps  of  other  fellows,  and  the  Head 
— not  that  he  says  so,  but  he  looks  as  if  he  thought  it ! " 
said  Valcourt. 

"Does  the  Head  see  a  great  deal  of  you?"  asked  Mrs. 
Mussard,  drawing  away  her  hand  and  grasping  at  a 
chance  of  improving  the  languishing  conversation.  Then 
as  Valcourt,  with  a  grave  air  of  reserve,  nodded  in  reply, 
"I  am  so  glad!"  breathed  Mrs.  Mussard  gushingly;  "be- 
cause, at  your  age,  impressions  received  must  sink  in 
deeply.  And  to  be  brought  in  contact  with  a  personality 
so  marked  must  be  impressive,  mustn  't  it  ? "  she  conclud- 
ed, rather  lamely. 

"I  suppose  so,"  agreed  Valcourt,  examining  the  pat- 
tern of  the  carpet.  He  looked  a  little  sulky  and  a  little 
bored,  and  for  sheer  womanly  desire  of  seeing  the  illu- 
minations rekindled  Mrs.  Mussard  gave  him  her  hand 
again. 

"You  are  going  into  the  Guards,  aren't  you,  by-and- 
by  ? "  she  queried. 

"If  I  can  get  through,"  said  Valcourt,  playing  with 
her  rings  and  smiling.  "  I  'm  in  the  Army  Class,  mathe- 
matics and  swot  generally.  But  I  think  our  family's 
too  old  or  something  to  produce  brainy  fellows.  Cads 
are  cleverer,  really,  than  we  are. ' ' 

His  tone  took  a  reflection  of  the  purple,  his  finely-cut 
profile  looked  for  an  instant  hard  as  diamond  and  ex- 
quisite as  a  cameo. 

Mrs.  Mussard,  sympathizing,  said  to  herself:  "After 
all,  why  should  he  be  clever?" 

"Still,  when  one  hasn't  much  money,"  she  began, 
reminiscent  of  the  Duchess's  entreaty. 


"VALCOURT'S    GRIN"  75 

"We're  beastly  poor,  of  course,"  admitted  Valcourt. 
"But  as  to  clothes  and  horses  and  shootin',  tradespeople 
will  tick  a  fellow  till  the  cows  come  home,  and  the  mil- 
lionaire manufacturers  who  buy  or  rent  fellows'  forests 
and  moors  and  rivers  and  things  are  always  glad  to  get 
the  fellow  himself  to  show  with  'em;  and  the  keepers 
and  gillies  and  chaps  take  care  that  he  gets  the  best 
that's  going  generally.  And  so  he  does  himself  pretty 
well  all  round." 

"That  sort  of  thing  is  too — undignified!"  said  Mrs. 
Mussard,  "and  too  uncertain.  A  man  of  rank  and  title 
must  have  a  solid  backing,  a  definite  entourage.  You 
must  marry,  and  marry  well. ' ' 

"Mother  always  talks  like  that!"  said  Valcourt.  "I 
think,"  he  added,  "she  has  somebody  in  her  eye  for 
me!" 

' '  Who  is  she  ? ' '  asked  Mrs.  Mussard  sharply. 

"I'm  not  quite  sure,"  said  Valcourt,  his  tourmaline 
eyes  narrowing  as  he  smiled  his  angelic  smile.  "Dutch 
Jewess,  perhaps,"  he  added  simply,  "with  barrels  of 
bullion  and  a  family  all  nose. ' ' 

"Horrible!"  cried  Mrs.  Mussard,  shuddering. 

' '  Her  brother  '&  in  the  Fifth, ' '  let  out  Valcourt.  ' '  We 
call  him  'Hooky  Holland.'  Their  father  was  secretary 
to  the  Klaproths  and  made  heaps  of  cash — 'cath'  Hooky 
calls  it.  He  never  talks  about  anything  but  'cath,'  and 
fellows  punch  him  for  it."  Valcourt  doubled  his  right 
hand  scientifically,  thumb  well  down,  and  glanced  at  it 
with  modest  appreciation  ere  he  resumed :  ' '  He  has  lots 
of  it,  too,  Hooky,  and  lends  at  interest — pretty  thick 
interest — to  fellows  who  get  broke  at  Bridge  or  bac- 
carat!" 

"Oh-h!  You  don't  play  baccarat  at  school,  surely! 
Such  an  awfully  gambling  game!"  expostulated  Val- 
court 's  hostess. 

"We  go  to  school  to  be  educated,  you  see,"  said  Val- 
court, in  a  slightly  argumentative  tone,  "for  what  Bun- 


76  "VALCOURT'S    GRIN" 

tham  calls  '  the  business  of  life, '  and  cards  are  part  of  a 
fellow's  life,  aren't  they?  So  they  ought,  instead  of 
being  forbidden,  to  form  part  of  what  Old  Cads  calls  the 
curriculum.  We  call  Buntham  'Cads'  because  he  calls 
us  cads  when  we  do  anything  that  upsets  him.  He's 
a  nervous  beggar,  and  gets  a  good  deal  of  upsetting. 
My  dame  says  he  weighs  himself  at  the  end  of  every 
term,  and  makes  a  note  of  the  pounds  he 's  lost  since  the 
beginning.  When  I  go  to  Sandhurst  she  thinks  he'll 
pick  up  a  bit,"  explained  Valcourt  with  his  angelic  grin. 

"I  hope  your  dame  is  a  nice,  motherly  old  person!" 
breathed  Mrs.  Mussard. 

"She's  nice — quite,"  said  Valcourt,  "and  awfully 
obliging.  I  don't  know  about  being  old — unless  you'd 
call  thirty-three  old."  Mrs.  Mussard  started  slightly. 
"When  I  have  a  cold  she  makes  me  jellies  and  things. 
Awfully  good  things!  And  I  give  her  concert  tickets, 
and  sometimes  we  go  on  the  river  and  have  strawber- 
ries and  cream.  Lots  of  our  fellows  tell  her  their  love 
affairs. ' ' 

"Do  you?" 

"And  some  of  'em  are  in  love  with  her,"  went  on  Val- 
court. 

Mrs.  Mussard  breathed  quickly.  Never  before  had  she 
realized  what  perils  environ  the  young  of  the  opposite 
sex,  even  with  the  chaste  environment  of  school  bounds. 
In  her  agitation  she  laid  her  hand  on  Valcourt 's  shoul- 
der. "I  hope — you  do  not  fancy  yourself  in  love  with 
her,"  she  uttered  anxiously. 

' '  Not  much  catch ! ' '  said  Valcourt,  with  the  composure 
of  forty.  ' '  I  got  over  that  in  my  second  year. ' ' 

"Silly  boy!"  Mrs.  Mussard  very  gently  smoothed 
down  a  lock  at  the  back  of  his  head,  which  erected  itself 
in  silky  defiance  above  its  fellows.  "When  love  comes 
to  you,  Valcourt, ' '  she  went  on,  with  a  vivid  recollection 
of  the  utterances  of  the  inspired  authoress  of  The  Bride's 


"VALCOURT'S    GRIN"  77 

Babble  Book,  "you  will  find  out  what  it  really  means. 
It  is  a  great  mystery,  my  dear  boy,  a  sacred  and  solemn 
unveiling  of  the  heart " 

She  stopped,  for  Valcourt  had  turned  his  face  up  to- 
ward hers,  gently  smiling,  and  revealing  two  neat  rows 
of  milky  white  teeth.  His  tourmaline  eyes  had  an  odd 
expression. 

' '  Did  you  speak,  dear  ? ' '  his  fair  Gamaliel  asked.  For 
the  impression  upon  her  was  that  he  had  uttered  two 
words,  and  that  they  were,  "Hooky's  sister!" 

But  Valcourt  shook  his  head.  "I  was  only  thinking. 
A  fellow  like  me  .  .  .  has  got  to  take  what  comes  .  .  . 
the  best  he  can  get  .  .  .  and  the  better  it  is,  so  much 
the  better  for  him,  don 't  you  see  ?  If  he  don 't  like  what 
he  gets,  he  doesn't  go  about  grousing.  He  generally 
pretends  he's  suited;  and  she  pretends;  and  they  get 
into  a  groove — or  they  get  into  the  newspapers,"  said 
Geraldine's  unworldly  babe.  "Beastly  bad  form  to  get 
into  the  newspapers.  I  never  mean  to." 

Mrs.  Mussard  listened  breathlessly. 

"I  shall  have  a  rattling  time,"  said  Valcourt,  in  his 
soft,  cooing  voice,  "till  Hooky's  sister  grows  up,  and 
mother  presents  her,  and  then  I  shall  marry  her,  I  sup- 
pose." 

' '  Dearest  boy,  I  hope  not ! ' '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Mussard. 
' '  Someone  more  suitable  must  be  found, ' '  she  continued, 
rapidly  putting  all  the  moneyed  girls  of  her  acquaint- 
ance through  a  mental  review.  "Why  should  you  not 
marry  beauty  and  birth  as  well  as  a  banking  account? 
The  three  things  are  sometimes  associated. ' ' 

"German  princes  pick  up  girls  of  that  kind,"  said 
Valcourt,  his  elbows  upon  his  knees,  and  his  round  young 
chin  cupped  in  his  hands,  "and  Austrian  archdukes. 
But  why  need  it  be  a  girl?"  he  went  on,  pressing  up 
the  smooth  young  skin  at  his  temples  with  his  finger-tips, 
so  as  to  produce  the  effect  of  premature  crows '-feet. 


78  "VALCOURT'S    GRIN" 

' '  I  don 't  like  girls — all  red  wrists  and  flat  waists.  Why 
shouldn't  it  be  a  woman,  say  a  dozen  years  older — an 
awfully  pretty  woman,  rich,  and  in  the  best  set,  who'd 
show  me  the  ropes?  I'm  a  jolly  ass  in  some  things.  I 
shall  come  no  end  of  croppers  when  I  go  into  society, 
unless  there's  somebody  to  give  me  the  needful  tip." 

Mrs.  Mussard  sat  very  upright.  She  looked  at  Val- 
court;  the  hand  with  which  she  had  smoothed  his  hair 
remained  suspended  in  mid-air  until  she  recollected  it 
and  laid  it  over  its  companion  in  her  lap. 

"Most  young  fellows  beginning  life  go  to  other  men's 
wives  for  advice, ' '  said  Valcourt.  ' '  Why  shouldn  't  I  go 
to  my  own?" 

Mrs.  Mussard 's  chiseled  scarlet  lips  moved  as  though 
she  had  echoed,  "Why  not?" 

' '  They — the  chaps  I  'm  talking  of — are  wild  about  'em 
— the  other  men's  wives.  Yet  nearly  all  of  the  women 
are  old  enough  to  be  their  mothers. ' ' 

"Their  grandmothers,  sometimes,"  said  Mrs.  Mussard 
unkindly. 

"Then  why  shouldn't  I  marry  a  woman  who's  only 
old  enough  to  be  my  aunt — a  young  aunt!  I'd  make  a 
Marchioness  of  her,  don't  you  know!  and  she'd  make — 
she  could  make  anything  she  liked  of  me!"  said  Val- 
court, turning  his  cherub  smile  and  tourmaline  eyes  sud- 
denly on  Mrs.  Mussard.  "You  could!"  The  lovely 
widow  started  violently,  and  flushed  from  the  string  of 
pearls  encircling  her  pretty  throat  to  the  little  gold  hair- 
waves  that  crisped  at  her  blue- veined  temples.  "You 
know  you  could!"  murmured  Valcourt.  The  strong 
young  arm  in  the  well-cut  sleeve  intercepted  the  re- 
treating movement  that  would  have  placed  the  lovely 
widow  in  the  uttermost  corner  of  the  sofa.  The  remon- 
strance upon  Vivienne's  lips  was  stifled  by  a  kiss,  given 
with  eloquence  and  decision,  though  the  lips  that  admin- 
istered it  were  soft,  and  unshaded  by  even  the  rudiments 


"VALCOURT'S    GRIN"  79 

of  a  mustache.  "I'm.  seventeen  the  end  of  this  term,  and 
five  feet  nine  in  my  socks, ' '  said  Valcourt,  a  little  breath- 
lessly, for  the  kiss  had  not  been  one-sided;  "and — and 
you're  simply  awfully  pretty.  Marry  me — I  shall  be  of 
age  before  you  know  it — and " 

' '  You  dreadfully  presuming  boy ! ' '  There  were  tears 
in  the  lovely  eyes  of  the  late  Mr.  Mussard  's  lovely  widow ; 
an  unwonted  throbbing  in  the  region  of  her  bodice  im- 
parted a  tremor  to  her  voice  that  added  to  its  charm. 
' '  I  shall  write  to  your  mother ! ' ' 

"  Do ! "  said  Valcourt,  with  his  angelic  smile.  ' '  She  '11 
be  awfully  pleased !  I  wonder  the  idea  didn  't  occur  to 
her  instead  of  to  me,  for  she's  awfully  clever,  and  I'm 
rather  an  ass.  .  .  .  Five  o  'clock ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  the 
delicate  chime  of  a  Pompadour  clock  upon  the  mantel- 
shelf announced  the  hour. 

"And  you  have  missed  the  matinee!"  said  Mrs.  Mus- 
sard. 

"I  preferred  this!"  said  Valcourt,  getting  up.  She 
had  no  idea  of  his  being  taller  than  herself  until  she 
found  the  tourmaline  eyes  looking  down  into  hers. 
' '  Good-bye,  and  thank  you,  Mrs.  Mussard, ' '  said  the  boy- 
ish, ringing  voice.  "I've  had  an  awfully  pleasant  day." 

Their  hands  met  and  lingered. 

"Don't  call  me  Mrs.  Mussard  any  more;  my — my 
name  is  Vivienne, ' '  she  said  in  a  half -whisper. 

' '  Jolly !  Hooky 's  sister 's  is  Bethsaba, ' '  said  Valcourt. 
He  made  a  quaint  grimace,  as  though  the  word  tasted 
nasty,  and  Vivienne  gave  a  little,  musical,  contented 
laugh.  "And  I  may  come  again,  mayn't  I?" 

"This  week,"  nodded  Mrs.  Mussard. 

"  I  '11  say  it 's  my  tooth, ' '  explained  Geraldine  's  guile- 
less offspring. 

He  reached  the  door,  the  handle  turned,  when  Mrs. 
Mussard  beckoned,  and  Valcourt  came  back. 

"I  should  like  to  ask  you,"  she  began  hesitatingly — 


80  "VALCOURT'S    GRIN" 

' '  not  that  it  matters  to  me ;  but  still,  in  your  own  inter- 
ests   And  you  know  your  mother  is  my  dearest 

friend!"  .  .  .  Valcourt  stood  with  the  beautiful  grin 
upon  his  face,  and  Mrs.  Mussard  found  the  thing  more 
difficult  to  say  than  she  had  imagined.  "Where  did  you 
— who  taught  you  to  make  love  like — like  that  ? — at  your 

— at  your  age.  .  .  .     I — it  is "    Valcourt  made  no 

reply  in  words,  but  the  expression  upon  his  face  became 
more  celestial  than  before.  ' '  I  hope  kissing  is  not  a  fea- 
ture of  the  curriculum.  But,  understand  clearly,"  said 
Mrs.  Mussard,  with  that  unusual  tremor  in  her  charm- 
ing voice,  "that  you  are  not  for  the  future  to  kiss  any- 
body but  me!"  And  as  the  door  closed  on  Valcourt 's 
heavenly  grin  and  tourmaline  eyes,  she  sat  down  to  write 
a  letter  to  Geraldine. 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  THE  FAIREST 

IP  not  absolutely  a  nincompoop,  Gerald  Delaurier  Gan- 
delish,  Esq.,  of  Swellingham  Mansions,  Piccadilly,  Un- 
dertherqse  Cottage,  Sunningwater,  Berks,  and  Horshun- 
dam  Abbey,  Miltshire,  was  undoubtedly  a  type  of  the 
genus  homo  recently  classified  by  a  distinguished  K.C. 
as  soft-minded  gentlemen.  Strictly  educated  by  a  pri- 
vate clerical  tutor  under  the  eye  of  pious  parents  of  lim- 
ited worldly  experience  and  unlimited  prejudices,  it  was 
not  to  be  expected  that  Gerry,  upon  their  dying  and  leav- 
ing him  in  undisputed  command  of  a  handsome  slice 
of  the  golden  cheese  of  worldly  wealth,  should  not  im- 
mediately proceed  to  make  ducks  and  drakes  of  it.  He 
essayed  to  win  a  name  upon  the  Turf;  and  when  I  re- 
mind you  that,  at  a  huge  price,  the  youth  became  pos- 
sessor of  that  remarkable  Derby  race-horse,  Duffer,  by 
Staggers  out  of  Hansom  Cab,  from  whom  eighteen  op- 
ponents cantered  away  in  the  Prince's  year  of  '90,  leav- 
ing the  animal  to  finish  the  race  at  three  lengths  from 
the  starting-post,  I  have  said  all.  Gerry  dabbled  ''con- 
siderable," as  our  American  relatives  would  say,  in 
stocks,  and  started  a  cafe  chantant  on  the  open-air  Pa- 
risian plan,  which  was  frequented  only  by  stray  cats 
and  London  blacks,  and  has  since  been  roofed  in  and 
turned  into  tea-rooms.  Sundry  other  investments  of 
Gerry 's  resulted  in  the  enrichment  of  several  very  shady 
persons,  and  a  consequent,  and  very  considerable,  dimi- 
nution in  the  large  stock  of  ready  money  with  which 
Gerry  had  started  his  career.  But  though  the  edges  of 

81 


82    THE    EVOLUTION    OF    THE    FAIREST 

the  slice  of  golden  cheese  had  been  a  good  deal  nibbled, 
the  bulk  of  it  remained,  and  Gerry's  Miltshire  acres, 
strictly  entailed  and  worth  eighty  thousand  pounds,  with 
another  twenty  thousand  in  Consols,  and  about  half  as 
much  again  snugly  invested  in  Home  Rails,  made  him  a 
catch  worth  angling  for  in  the  eyes  of  many  mothers. 

We  have  termed  Gerry  "soft-minded."  He  was  also 
soft-hearted,  soft-eyed,  soft-voiced,  soft-haired,  soft- 
skinned,  and  soft-mannered — the  kind  of  youth  women 
who  own  to  years  of  discretion  like  to  pet  and  bully,  the 
kind  of  man  schoolgirls  call  a  ' '  duck. ' '  True,  his  neck- 
ties aroused  indignation  in  the  breasts  of  intolerant 
elderly  gentlemen,  the  patterns  of  his  tweeds  afforded  ex- 
quisite amusement  to  members  of  the  Household  Bri- 
gade, and  his  jewelry  could  not  be  gazed  at  without 
winking  by  the  unseasoned  eye ;  but,  despite  these  draw- 
backs, Gerry  was  a  gentleman.  Without  the  stamp  of 
a  public  school  or  a  select  club,  without  the  tone  of  the 
best  society — for,  with  the  exception  of  a  turfy  baronet 
or  so  and  a  couple  of  sporting  peers,  Gerry  knew  nobody 
who  was  anybody — Gerry  was  decidedly  a  gentleman, 
whose  progress  to  the  dogs  was  arrested,  luckily  for  the 
young  prodigal,  when  he  fell  in  love  with  the  famous 
burlesque  actress,  Miss  Lottie  Speranza,  of  the  Levity 
Theater. 

Of  theaters  and  theatrical  people  Gerry  may  be  said 
to  have  known  little  or  nothing  until  the  enchanting 
Lottie  blazed  upon  his  field  of  vision.  Gerry's  worthy 
parents,  strict  moralists  both,  had  considered  the  theater 
as  the  temple  of  Satan,  and  had  exacted  from  their  only 
child  a  solemn  promise  that  he  would  never  enter  one. 
This  promise  Gerry  had  actually  kept,  contenting  him- 
self with  the  entertainments  offered  by  the  music  halls, 
which  his  father  had  omitted  to  stigmatize  and  his 
mother  knew  not  of.  But  at  the  close  of  a  festive  dinner, 
given  by  Gerry  to  a  select  party  of  ' '  pals, "  in  a  private 


THE    EVOLUTION    OF    THE    FAIREST    83 

room  at  the  Levity  Restaurant,  when  a  brief,  lethargic 
slumber  obscured  the  senses  of  the  youthful  host,  the 
brilliant  idea  of  conveying  him  to  a  box  in  the  theater 
upstairs  occurred  to  one  of  his  guests,  and  was  forthwith 
carried  out.  Emerging  from  a  condition  of  coma,  Gerry 
found  himself  staring  into  a  web  of  crossing  and  inter- 
secting limelights  of  varying  hues,  in  which  a  dazzling 
human  butterfly,  entangled,  was  beating  quivering  wings. 
The  butterfly  had  lustrous  eyes,  encircled  with  blue  rims, 
a  complexion  of  theatrical  red  and  white,  and  masses  of 
golden  hair.  Her  twinkling  feet  beat  out  a  measure  to 
which  Gerry's  pulses  began  to  dance  madly.  He  sent 
the  goddess  an  invitation  to  supper,  which  was  promptly 
declined.  He  forwarded  a  stack  of  roses,  which  were 
not  acknowledged,  and  a  muff-chain,  turquoise  and  peri- 
dot, which  were  returned  to  the  address  upon  his  card. 
He  felt  hurt  but  happy  at  these  rebuffs,  which  proved  to 
him  that  Miss  Speranza  was  above  reproach;  and  when 
a  bosom  friend  of  his  own  age  hinted  that  the  prudish 
fair  one  was  playing  the  big  game,  and  advised  him  to 
try  her  with  a  motor-car,  Gerry  promptly  converted  the 
bosom  friend  into  a  stranger  by  the  simple  process  of 
asking  him  to  redeem  a  few  of  his  I  0  U's.  This  got 
about,  and  caused  Gerry's  other  friends  to  turn  sharp 
round  corners,  or  jump  into  hansoms  when  they  saw 
Gerry  coming.  Gerry  hardly  missed  them,  though  the 
man  who  could  have  afforded  an  introduction  to  his 
charmer  would  have  been  welcomed  with  open  arms. 
He  occupied  the  same  box  at  the  Levity  nightly  now, 
and  made  up,  in  its  murkiest  corner,  a  good  deal  of  the 
nightly  rest  of  which  his  clamant  passion  deprived  him. 
But  he  awakened,  as  by  instinct,  whenever  Miss  Spe- 
ranza tripped  upon  the  stage ;  and  the  large-eyed,  vacu- 
ous, gorgeously-attired  beauties  who  ' '  went  on ' '  with  the 
Chorus — the  Lotties,  Maries,  Daisies,  Topsies  of  the  no- 
ble houses  of  Montague,  Talbot,  De  Crespigny,  and  Dela- 


84    THE    EVOLUTION    OF    THE    FAIREST 

mere, — would  languidly  nudge  each  other  at  the  pas- 
sionately prolonged  plaudits  of  a  particular  pair  of  im- 
maculate white  gloves,  and  wonder  semi-audibly  what 
the  man  saw  in  Speranza,  dear,  to  make  such  a  bloomin' 
silly  fuss  about? 

Gerry  had  occupied  his  watch-tower  at  the  Levity 
for  six  weeks  or  so,  and  was  beginning  to  deteriorate 
in  appetite  and  complexion  (so  powerful  are  the  effects 
of  passion  unreturned),  when  Undertherose  Cottage  at 
Sunningwater,  a  charming  Thames-side  residence  of 
the  bijou  kind,  with  small  grounds  and  a  capacious  cel- 
lar, a  boat-house,  and  a  house-boat,  a  pigeon-cote  and 
a  private  post-box,  became  suddenly  vacant.  The  tenant, 
a  lady  of  many  charms  and  much  experience,  who  had 
passed  over  to  Gerry  with  the  property,  returned  to  her 
native  Paris  to  open  a  bonnet-shop;  and  Gerry,  as  he 
wandered  over  the  dwelling  with  the  sanitary  engineer 
and  decorator,  who  had  carte  'blanche,  to  do-up  the  place, 
found  himself  strolling  on  the  tiny  lawn  (in  imagina- 
tion) by  the  visioned  side  of  the  enchantress  who  had 
enthralled  him,  supping  (also  in  imagination)  with  the 
same  divine  creature  in  the  duodecimo  oak  dining-room, 
and  smoking  a  cigarette  in  her  delightful  company  upon 
the  balcony  of  the  boudoir.  Waking  from  these  dreams 
was  a  piquant  anguish.  Gerry  indeed  possessed  the 
cage,  one  of  the  most  ideal  nests  for  a  honeymooning 
pair  imaginable ;  but  in  vain  for  the  airy  feminine  song- 
ster might  the  infatuated  fowler  spread  nets  and  set 
springs. 

"If  we  didn't  live  in  this  confoundedly  proper  twen- 
tieth century,"  thought  disconsolate  Gerry,  "a  chappie 
might  hire  a  coach  and  eight,  bribe  a  few  bruisers  to 
repress  attempts  at  rescue,  snap  her  up  respectfully  as 
she  came  out  at  the  stage  door,  and  absquatulate — no! 
abduct 's  the  word.  Not  that  I'd  behave  like  a  brute; 
I'd  marry  her  to-morrow  if  she'd  only  give  me  a  chance 


THE    EVOLUTION    OF    THE    FAIREST    85 

to  ask  her.  Marquises  do  that  sort  of  thing,  and  their 
families  come  round  a  bit  and  bless  the  young  people. 
She  must  have  shown  the  door  to  dozens  of  'em."  He 
sighed,  for  where  the  possessor  of  a  ripe  old  peerage 
had  failed,  how  could  Gerald  Gandelish,  Esq.,  hope  to 
triumph?  "And  she's  so  awfully  proper  and  stand- 
offish, too,"  he  reflected.  He  wondered  how  many  years 
it  had  taken  those  privileged  persons  whom  the  lady 
permitted  to  rank  as  her  friends  to  attain  that  enviable 
distinction.  "I've  never  met  a  man  who  could,  or 
would,  introduce  me,"  he  added,  pulling  his  mustache, 
which  from  happily  turning  up  at  the  corners  had  re- 
cently acquired  a  decided  tendency  to  droop.  "Seemed 
to  shy  at  it,  somehow;  and  so  I  shall  take  the  initi — 
what-you-call — myself.  She  shall  know  from  the  start 
that  my  intentions  are  honorable,  and,  hang  it!  the 
name's  a  good  one.  .  .  .  There's  been  a  Gandelish  of 
Horshundam  ever  since  Henry  the  Eighth  hanged  the 
abbot  and  turned  out  the  monks,  and  put  my  ancestor 
Gorbred  in  to  keep  the  place  warm.  Gorbred  was  His 
Majesty's  principal  purveyor  of  sack  and  sugar,  'and 
divers  dainty  cates  beside,'  as  the  Chronicle  has  it,  and 
must  have  given  the  Tudor  unlimited  tick,  I  gather. 
Anyhow,  if  four  centuries  of  landlording  don't  make  a 
tradesman  a  gentleman,  they  ought  to;  and  I  can't 

see " 

Gerry  climbed  into  his  ' '  Runhard ' '  thirty  horse-power 
roadster,  pulled  down  the  talc  mask  of  his  driving  cap 
to  preserve  his  eyes  and  complexion,  and  ran  back  to 
town.  That  night,  as  he  quitted  his  box  at  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  Levity  performance  (you  will  remember  the 
phenomenal  run  of  The  Idiot  Girl  in  19 — !),  he  turned 
up  his  coat  collar  with  the  air  of  a  man  resolved  to 
do  or  die,  and  boldly  plunged  into  the  little  entry  lead- 
ing to  the  stage  door.  The  bemedaled  military  guar- 
dian of  those  rigid  portals,  who  had  absorbed  several  of 


Gerry's  sovereigns  without  winking,  regarded  him  with 
a  glazed  eye  and  a  stiff  upper  lip. 

"Would  you  kindly "  began  Gerry. 

But  the  stage-doorkeeper  paid  no  heed,  busily  engaged 
as  he  was  in  delivering  letters  from  a  rack  on  the  wall, 
lettered  S,  into  the  hands  of  a  slight  little  woman  in  a 
rather  shabby  tweed  ulster  and  plain  felt  hat.  Gerry's 
heart  jumped  as  he  recognized  his  own  handwriting  upon 
one  of  the  envelopes.  .  .  .  Surely  the  tiny  tin  gods  had 
favored  him!  The  little  woman  in  the  ulster  and  the 
plain  felt  hat  must  be  lady's  maid  to  the  brilliant  Spe- 
ranza.  As  she  thrust  the  letters  into  her  pockets,  nodded 
familiarly  to  the  commissionaire,  and  came  out  of  the 
stage-door  office,  Gerry,  his  heart  in  his  mouth  and  his 
hat  in  his  hand,  stood  in  her  way. 

"Miss — Madam "  he  began.  "If  I  might  ask 

you " 

"What's  that?"  shouted  the  commissionaire.  As  the 
little  woman  stepped  quickly  backwards,  Cerberus 
emerged,  purple  and  growling,  from  his  den  and  reared 
his  huge  body  as  a  barrier  before  her.  "Annoying  the 
lady,  are  ye?"  he  roared,  with  a  fine  forgetfulness  of 
Gerry's  sovereigns.  "Wait  till  I  knock  your  mouth 
round  to  the  back  of  your  head,  you  kid-gloved  young 
blaggyard,  you !  Wait  till " 

"Be  quiet,  0 'Murphy!"  said  the  little  woman  in  a 
tone  and  with  an  accent  which  raised  her  to  the  level  of 
lady's  companion  in  Gerry's  estimation.  And  as  the 
crestfallen  0 'Murphy  retreated  into  his  den,  she  said, 
turning  a  plain  little  clever  face,  irradiated  by  a  pair  of 
brilliant  eyes,  upon  the  crimson  Gerry,  "Did  you  wish 
to  speak  to  me?" 

1 '  I  certainly  do,  if  you  are  any  relative — or  a  member 
of  the  household — of  Miss  Speranza,"  Gerry  stuttered. 

There  was  a  flash  of  eyes  and  teeth  in  the  plain,  in- 
significant face. 


THE    EVOLUTION    OF    THE    FAIREST    87 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  little  woman,  "I  live  with  Miss 
Speranza. ' ' 

Gerry's  tongue  grew  large,  impeding  utterance,  and 
his  palate  dried  up.  Of  all  creatures  upon  earth  this 
little  tweed-ulstered  woman,  in  the  well-worn  felt  hat 
with  the  fatigued  feather,  seemed  to  him  the  most  to 
be  envied. 

"You — you're  lucky,"  he  said  lamely,  and  blushed 
up  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  and  down  to  the  tips  of  his 
toes. 

"I've  known  her  ever  since  she  knew  herself,"  said 
the  little  companion.  "We  were  girls  together."  Gerry 
could  have  laughed  in  her  middle-aged  face,  but  he  only 
handed  her  his  card.  ' '  Oh  yes, ' '  she  said  after  she  had 
glanced  at  it.  "I  seem  to  know  the  name.  You  have 
written  to  her,  haven't  you?" 

"Sev-several  times,"  acquiesced  Gerry  hoarsely.  "I 
have  ta-taken  the  privilege." 

"A  great  many  other  young  gentlemen  have  taken  it 
too,"  observed  Miss  Speranza 's  companion. 

Then,  as  the  swing  doors  behind  her  opened  to  let  out 
a  blast  of  hot  air  and  several  grimy  stage  carpenters, 
and  the  swing  doors  before  her  parted  to  let  in  a  blast 
of  cold  air  as  the  men  shouldered  out,  "Excuse  me," 
she  said,  and  shivered,  and  moved  as  though  to  pass.  ' '  It 
is  very  cold  here,  and  the  brougham  is  waiting." 

"Beggin'  pardon!"  said  0 'Murphy,  looking  out  of 
his  hole,  "the  groom  sent  his  jooty,  an'  the  pole  av  a 
'bus  had  gone  clane  through  the  back  panel  av  the  broom 
in  a  block  off  the  Sthrand.  .  .  .  The  horse  kicked  wan 
av  his  four  shoes  off,  an'  they've  gone  back  wid  them- 
selves to  the  stables  to  get  the  landau  an'  pair " 

"Call  a  hansom,"  said  the  plain  little  woman.  "I 
—we  can 't  wait  here  all  night ! ' ' 

As  0 'Murphy  saluted  and  went  outside,  she  stepped 
into  his  vacant  hutch,  and  Gerry  daringly  followed, 


88   THE    EVOLUTION    OF    THE    FAIREST 

' '  If  I  might  venture  to  offer, ' '  he  began.  ' '  My  cab — 

place  disposal — Miss  Speranza — too  much  honored " 

He  trailed  off  into  a  morass  of  polite  intentions,  rudi- 
mentarily  expressed.  The  little  companion  maintained 
a  preoccupied  air;  she  was  probably  expecting  her  mis- 
tress, Gerry  thought,  but  the  conviction  was  no  sooner 
formed  than  banished. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  she  said,  "but  Miss  Speranza 
cannot  avail  herself  of  your  offer.  She  sometimes  leaves 
quite  early,  and  by  the  private  door,  and,  as  it  happens, 
T  am  going  home  alone. ' ' 

"Oh!"  cried  Gerry  earnestly,  "if  you  knew  how 
awfully  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  you  would  let  me  drive 
you  there — wherever  it  is ! " 

Tears  stood  in  the  soft  eyes  of  the  somewhat  soft- 
headed young  man,  and  the  heart  of  the  little  lady  in  the 
ulster  was  softened,  for  she  looked  upon  him  with  a 
smile,  saying: 

"Here  comes  0 'Murphy  to  say  my  hansom  is  wait- 
ing. .  .  .  You  may  drive  with  me  part  of  the  way,  and 
say  what  you  have  to  say,  if  it  is  so  very  important," 
she  said,  with  a  brilliant  gleam  of  mockery  in  her  re- 
markable eyes. 

Need  one  say  that  the  enamored  Gerry  jumped  at 
the  proposal,  and  they  went  out  into  the  plashy  night 
together. 

"Give  the  driver  the  address,  O 'Murphy, "  ordered 
the  little  ulstered  woman.  "Jump  in!"  she  said  to 
Gerry,  and,  presto!  they  were  rattling  together  up  a 
stony  thoroughfare  leading  from  the  roaring  midnight 
Strand,  which  in  the  present  year  of  grace  presents  a 
smooth  face  of  macadam. 

"Will  you  have  the  glass  down?"  said  Gerry. 

' '  Too  warm ! ' '  cried  the  little  ulstered  woman.  ' '  Now, 
what  have  you  to  say?" 

"How  this  trap  rattles!"  shouted  Gerry.    "One  can 


THE    EVOLUTION    OF    THE    FAIREST    89 

hardly  hear  oneself  speak.  But  with  regard  to  Miss 
Speranza " 

"I  suppose  the  pith  of  the  matter  is — you  are  in  love 
with  her?"  shrieked  the  little  woman. 

"Madly!"  bellowed  Gerry.  "Been  so  for  weeks. 
Hold  up,  you  brute!"  This  to  the  cab-horse,  a  dilapi- 
dated equine  wreck,  which  had  stumbled. 

"Oh,  you  boys!  You're  all  alike!"  cried  his  com- 
panion. 

"Mine  is  a  man's  love,"  roared  Gerry.  "I  would  lay 
the  world  at  her  feet,  if  I  had  it;  and  I  want  you  to 
tell  her  so."  The  rattling  of  the  crazy  cab  nearly 
drowned  his  accents.  "  Oh !  what  do  you  think  she  will 
say?"  he  bellowed,  his  lips  close  to  the  little  woman's 
ear. 

"She  would  say — Oh!  do  you  think  this  man  is  so- 
ber ? ' '  screamed  the  little  woman.  ' '  I  mean  the  driver, ' ' 
she  added,  meeting  Gerry's  indignant  glare. 

"I  don't  think  he  is  too  drunk  to  drive,"  yelled 
Gerry.  ' '  Tell  me,  if  you  have  a  heart, ' '  he  howled, ' '  have 
I  any  chance  with  her?" 

' '  Ah !  we  're  off  the  cobblestones  now ! ' '  said  his  com- 
panion, leaning  back  with  an  air  of  relief. 

"And  you  can  answer  my  question,"  pressed  Gerry. 
"I — I  needn't  explain  my  views  are  honorable — straight 
as  a  fellow's  can  be.  Love  like  mine  is " 

"So  dreadfully  greasy!"  commented  his  companion 
anxiously,  as  the  debilitated  steed  recovered  himself 
with  difficulty  at  the  end  of  a  long  slide. 

"When  I  have  been  sitting,  night  after  night,  in  that 
box  looking  at  her,  thinking  of  her,  worshiping  her, 
by  George ! ' '  went  on  Gerry,  ' '  she  must  have  sometimes 
noticed  me,  and  said  to  herself " 

' '  I  knew  he  would  go  down ! ' '  cried  the  little  woman, 
clutching  Gerry's  arm,  as  the  steed  disappeared  and  the 
shaft-ends  bumped  on  the  asphalt.  "Let's  get  out!" 


90    THE    EVOLUTION    OF    THE    FAIREST 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  lydy,"  said  a  hoarse  voice, 
through  the  trap  overhead,  as  the  panting  steed  heaved 
and  struggled  to  regain  his  hoofs.  ' '  'E  won 't  do  it  agen 
this  journey.  One  fall  is  'is  allowance,  an'  'e  never 
goes  beyond." 

"And  we're  quite  close  to  Pelgrave  Square,"  said 
Gerry. 

"How  do  you  know  Miss  Speranza  lives  in  Pelgrave 
Square?"  said  his  companion  with  a  keen  look. 

"Because  I've  seen  photogravings  of  her  house  in  an 
illustrated  interview,"  replied  Gerry. 

' '  Ah,  of  course, ' '  said  the  little  lady,  with  a  thoughtful 
smile.  The  steed,  bearing  out  his  driver's  recommenda- 
tion, was  now  jogging  along  reassuringly  enough.  "And 
did  the  portraits  remind  you  of  no  one?"  she  added, 
with  another  of  those  flashing  smiles  that  invested  her 
little  fatigued  features  with  transient  youth. 

"They  weren't  half  beautiful  enough  for  her,"  said 
Gerry  fervently.  Then  a  ray  of  light  broke  upon  him, 
and  he  jumped.  ' '  You — you  're  a  little  bit  like  her ! "  he 
exclaimed.  ' '  What  a  blind  duffer  I  am !  I  've  been  tak- 
ing you  for  her  companion,  and  all  the  while  you're  a 
relative." 

"Yes,  I  am  a  relative,"  nodded  the  little  lady. 

"Her  aunt!"  hazarded  Gerry. 

"Her  mother!"  said  the  little  lady,  with  a  dazzling 
flash  of  eyes  and  teeth.  "How  stupid  you  were  not  to 
guess  it  before!" 

' '  I  've  said  nothing,  madam,  that  I  should  not,  I  trust, ' ' 
remarked  Gerry,  with  quite  a  seventeenth-century  man- 
ner. "And,  therefore,  when  I  entreat  you  to  allow  me 
an  interview  with  your  daughter,  I  trust  you  will  not 
refuse  to  grant  my — my  prayer." 

"Hear  the  boy!"  cried  the  little  woman,  with  a  trill 
of  laughter,  as  the  cab  pulled  up  before  a  large  lighted 
house  in  a  large  darkish  square.  ' '  Well, ' '  she  added, ' '  I 


THE    EVOLUTION    OF    THE    FAIREST    91 

think  I  can  promise  you  that  Lottie  will  see  you  at  least 
for  a  minute  or  two  to-morrow.  Not  here — at  the  the- 
ater, seven  o'clock  sharp.  Lend  me  a  pencil  and  one  of 
your  cards."  She  scribbled  a  word  or  two  on  the  bit 
of  pasteboard,  paid  the  cab  in  spite  of  Gerry's  protesta- 
tions, and  ran  lightly  up  the  solemn  doorsteps,  turned 
to  the  enraptured  young  man  standing,  hat  in  hand,  be- 
low, waved  her  hand,  plunged  a  Yale  key  into  the  key- 
hole— and  instantly  vanished  from  view. 

Behind  Gerry's  shirt-front  throbbed  tumultuous  de- 
light. To  have  driven  in  a  cab  with  her  mother — talked 
of  her,  told  his  tale  of  love — albeit  with  interruptions — 
and  won  the  promise  of  an  interview  at  seven  sharp 
upon  the  morrow.  .  .  .  Unprecedented  fortune !  incom- 
parable luck!  Did  Time  itself  cease  he  would  not  fail 
to  keep  the  tryst  with  punctuality.  He  caught  a  passing 
cab,  drove  home  to  his  Piccadilly  chambers,  and  went 
to  bed  so  blissfully  happy  that  he  spent  a  wretchedly 
bad  night.  The  card  he  kept  beneath  his  pillow;  and 
true  to  the  promise  made  by  the  mother  of  the  en- 
chantress of  his  soul — when,  punctually  to  the  stroke 
of  seven,  Gerry,  dressed  with  the  most  excruciating  care, 
and  clammy  with  repressed  emotion,  presented  himself 
at  the  stage  door  of  the  Levity — the  scrawled  hiero- 
glyphics on  the  blessed  piece  of  pasteboard  admitted  him 
behind  the  scenes.  Led  by  a  smartly-aproned  maid,  he 
climbed  stairs,  he  crossed  the  stage,  was  jostled  by  baize- 
aproned  men  in  paper  caps,  and  begged  their  pardon. 
He  followed  his  guide  down  a  short  passage,  fell  up 
three  steps — and  knocked  with  his  burning  brow  against 
the  door — her  door !  A  voice  he  knew  said,  ' '  Come  in ! " 
and  in  he  went,  to  find,  not  the  adored,  the  worshiped 
Lottie,  but  the  little  plainish  lady  of  the  previous  night, 
sitting  at  a  lace-veiled  dressing-table,  attired  in  a  Japa- 
nese gown. 

"Oh,  I  say!"  murmured  Gerry. 


92    THE    EVOLUTION    OF    THE    FAIREST 

' '  Ah !  there  you  are ! ' '  The  little  lady  looked  at  him 
over  her  shoulder,  and  nodded  kindly.  "Don't  be  too 
disappointed  at  not  finding  Lottie  here, ' '  she  said  cheer- 
fully ;  ' '  she  won 't  be  long. ' ' 

"I'm.  so  awfully  obliged  for  all  your  kindness,"  said 
Gerry,  sheepishly  smiling  over  a  giant  bouquet. 

"You  shall  be  really  grateful  to  me  one  of  these  days, 
I  promise  you, ' '  said  the  little  lady.  ' '  Let  my  maid  take 
that  haysta — that  bouquet,  and  sit  down,  do ! " 

Gerry  took  the  indicated  chair  beside  the  dressing- 
table,  and  noted,  as  he  sucked  the  top  of  his  stick,  how 
pitilessly  the  relentless  radiance  of  the  electric  light 
accentuated  the  worn  lines  of  the  little  lady's  face  and 
the  gray  streaks  in  her  still  soft  and  pretty  brown  hair. 

"Cheer  up!"  she  said,  turning  one  of  her  flashing 
smiles  upon  him  as  he  sadly  sucked  his  stick.  "You 
won 't  have  long  to  wait  for  Lottie ! ' ' 

"  No ! "  said  Gerry  rather  vacuously. 

"No!"  said  Lottie's  mother,  pulling  off  some  very 
handsome  rings  and  hanging  them  upon  the  horns  of  a 
coral  lobster  that  adorned  the  dressing-table.  ' '  She  takes 
about  twenty  minutes  to  make  up."  Her  pretty,  white, 
carefully-manicured  fingers  busied  themselves,  as  she 
talked,  with  various  little  pots  and  bottles  and  rolls  of 
a  mysterious  substance  of  a  pinky  hue,  not  unlike  the 
peppermint  suck-stick  of  Gerry's  youth.  "And  are  you 
as  much  in  love  with  her  to-day,"  she  continued,  "as  you 
were  last  night?" 

"So  much  in  love,"  said  Gerry,  uncorking  himself, 
"that  to  call  her  my  wife  I  would  sacrifice  everything." 

"To  call  her  your  wife?"  The  little  lady  pushed  her 
hair  back  from  her  face,  twisted  it  tightly  up  behind, 
and  pinned  it  flat  with  a  relentless  hairpin. 

"To  make  her  my  wife,"  Gerry  amended,  with  a 
healthy  blush. 

"Ah!"  said  the  little  lady,  who  had   covered  her 


THE    EVOLUTION    OF    THE    FAIREST    93 

entire  countenance,  ears,  and  neck  with  a  shiny  mask 
of  pinkish  paste.  "A  word  makes  such  a  difference." 
She  dipped  a  hare's-foot  into  a  saucer  of  rouge,  and 
with  this  compound  impartially,  as  it  seemed  to  Gerry, 
incarnadined  her  cheeks  and  chin.  "Of  course,"  she 
went  on,  dipping  a  disemboweled  powder-puff  into  a 
pot  of  French  chalk  and  deftly  applying  it,  "you  are 
aware  that  she  possesses  in  years  the  advantage  of 
yourself. ' ' 

"I  am  twenty-three,"  said  Gerry  proudly. 

"She  owns  to  more  than  that!"  said  the  lovely  Lottie's 
mother.  She  had  reddened  her  mouth,  hitherto  obliter- 
ated by  the  paste,  into  an  alluring  Cupid's  bow,  and 
darkened  in,  above  her  wonderfully  brilliant  eyes,  a  pair 
of  arch-provoking  eyebrows.  Now,  as  some  inkling  of 
the  fateful  revelation  in  store  clamped  Gerry's  jaws 
upon  his  stick  and  twined  his  legs  in  a  death-grip  about 
the  supports  of  his  chair,  she  rapidly,  with  a  blue  pencil, 
imparted  to  those  brilliant  eyes  the  Oriental  languor, 
the  divinely  alluring,  almond-lidded  droop  that  distin- 
guished Lottie's,  seized  a  tooth-brush,  dipped  it  into  a 
bottle,  apparently  of  liquid  soot,  rapidly  blackened  her 
eyelashes,  indicated  with  rose-pink  a  dimple  on  her  chin, 
groped  for  a  moment  in  a  cardboard  box  that  stood 
upon  the  ledge  of  her  toilet  table,  produced  a  golden  wig 
of  streaming  tresses,  dexterously  assumed  it,  pulled  here, 
patted  there,  twisted  a  brow-tendril  into  shape — and 
turning,  shed  upon  the  paralyzed  Gerry  the  smile  that 
had  enchained  his  heart. 

"I  told  you  Lottie  would  not  be  long,"  said  Lottie, 
"and  I've  made  up  under  twenty  minutes.  You  dear, 
silly,  honorable,  romantic  boy,  don't  stare  in  that  awful 
way.  Twenty-three  indeed!  And  I  told  you  I  owned 
to  more !  I  ought  to,  for  I  have  a  son  at  Harrow,  and 
a  daughter  of  seventeen  besides.  ...  Do  try  and  shut 
your  mouth.  Why,  you  poor  dear  goose,  I  was  making 


94    THE    EVOLUTION    OF    THE    FAIREST 

my  bow  to  the  boys  in  the  gallery  when  you  were  play: 
ing  with  a  Noah's  Ark.  Shake  hands,  and  go  round 
in  front  and  see  me  do  my  piece,  as  usual.  I  've  got  used 
to  that  nice  fresh  face  of  yours  up  in  Box  B,  and  ap- 
plause is  the  breath  of  my  nostrils,  if  I  am  old  enough 
to  be  your  mother.  Leave  your  flowers;  my  girl  at 
home  has  got  quite  to  look  out  for  them — and  be  off 
with  you,  because  this" — she  indicated  the  French  chalk 
— "has  got  to  go  farther!"  She  gave  Gerry  her  pretty 
hand  and  one  of  the  brilliant  smiles,  as  he  blundered 
up  from  his  chair,  gasping  apologies. 

"Come  and  lunch  with  us  to-morrow.  You  know  my 
address,  and  I  've  told  the  Professor  all  about  you.  You  '11 
like  the  Professor — my  husband.  One  of  the  best,  though 
his  wife  says  it.  And  the  children " 

' '  Can  I  come  in,  mother  ? ' '  said  a  clear  voice  outside. 

' '  All  right,  pet ! ' '  called  back  Gerry 's  late  goddess,  and 
a  girl  of  seventeen  came  into  the  room.  She  was  all 
that  Gerry  had  dreamed.  .  .  .  His  frozen  blood  began 
to  thaw,  and  his  tongue  found  words.  Here  was  the 
ideal. 

"But  her  name  isn't  Lottie!"  said  his  dethroned 
goddess,  with  a  twinkle  of  the  wondrous  eyes.  "How- 
ever, you're  coming  to  lunch  to-morrow,  aren't  you?" 

' '  With  the  greatest  pleasure, ' '  said  Gerry.  And  as  he 
went  round  to  his  box  he  carefully  obliterated  the  name 
from  the  portrait  cherished  in  his  bosom  for  so  many 
weeks,  with  the  intention  of  filling  it  in  with  another 
to-morrow. 


THE  REVOLT  OF  RUSTLETON 

A  NEW-COMER  joined  the  circle  of  attentive  listeners 
gathered  round  the  easiest  of  all  the  easy-chairs  in  the 
smoking-room  of  the  Younger  Sons'  Club.  The  sur- 
rounded chair  contained  Hambridge  Ost,  a  small,  drab, 
livery  man,  with  long  hair  and  drooping  eyelids,  who, 
as  cousin  to  Lord  Pomphrey,  enjoyed  the  immense  but 
fleeting  popularity  of  the  moment.  Everyone  panted 
to  hear  the  details  of  the  latest  Society  elopement  be- 
fore the  newspapers  should  disseminate  them  abroad. 
And  Hambridge  was  not  unwilling  to  oblige. 

"The  first  inkling  of  the  general  trend  of  affairs, 
dear  fellow,"  said  Hambridge,  joining  his  long,  pale 
finger-tips  before  him,  and  smiling  at  the  new-comer 
across  the  barrier  thus  formed,  "was  conveyed  to  me 
by  an  agitated  ring  at  the  telephone  in  my  rooms.  Buck- 
nell,  my  man,  hello 'ed.  To  Bucknell's  astonishment  the 
ring-up  came  from  000,  Werkeley  Square,  the  town 
mansion  of  my  cousin,  Lord  Pomphrey,  which  he  knew 
to  be  in  holland  covers  and  the  care  of  an  ex-house- 
keeper. And  Lady  Pomphrey  was  the  ringer.  When 
I  hello 'ed  her,  saying,  'Are  you  there,  Annabella?  So 
glad,  but  how  unexpected ;  thought  you  were  all  enjoy- 
ing your  otium  cum  down  at  Cluckham-Pomphrey ' — 
my  cousin's  country-seat  in  Slowshire,  dear  fellow — 
such  a  verbal  flood  of  disjointed  sentences  came  hustling 
over  the  wire,  so  to  speak,  that  I  felt  convinced,  even 
in  the  act  of  rubbing  my  ear,  which  tickled  confound- 
edly, that  something  was  quite  absolutely  wrong  some- 
where. Pomphrey — dear  fellow ! — was  my  first  thought ; 

95 


96       THE    REVOLT    OF    RUSTLETON 

then  the  Dowager — the  ideal  of  a  fine  old  Tory  noble- 
woman of  ninety-eight,  who  may  drop,  so  to  put  it, 
any  moment,  dear  creature,  relieving  her  family  of  the 
charge  of  paying  her  income  and  leaving  the  Dower 
House  vacant  for  Lord  Rustleton,  my  cousin's  heir  and 
his — ahem ! — bride.  Knowing  that  Rustleton  was  to  lead 
the  Hon.  Celine  Twissing  to  the  altar  of  St.  George's, 
Hanover  Square,  early  in  the  Winter  season,  it  occurred 
to  me,  so  to  put  it,  that  the  demise  of  the  Dowager  could 
not  have  occurred  at  a  more  auspicious  moment.  Thank 
you,  dear  fellow,  I  will  smoke  one  of  your  particular 
Partagas,  since  you're  so  good." 

Four  men  struck  vestas  simultaneously  as  Hambridge 
relieved  the  nicotian  delicacy  of  its  gold-and-scarlet  cum- 
merbund. Another  man  supplied  him  with  an  ash-tray. 
Yet  another  pushed  a  footstool  under  his  pampered 
patent-leathers.  Exhaling  a  thin  blue  cloud,  the  Oracle 
continued : 

"Amidst  my  distracted  relative's  fragmentary  utter- 
ances I  gleaned  the  name  of  Rustleton.  Hereditary 
weak  heart — circulation  as  limited  as  that  of  a  news- 
paper which  on  strictly  moral  grounds  declines  to  re- 
port Divorce  Cases — and  a  disproportionate  secretion 
of  bile,  so  to  put  it,  distinguishes  him,  dear  fellow,  from, 
shall  I  say,  mortals  less  favored  by  birth  and  of  lower 
rank.  A  vision  of  a  hatchment  over  the  door  of  000, 
Werkeley  Square — of  the  entire  population  of  the  county 
assisting  at  his  obsequies,  dear  fellow — volted  through 
my  brain.  I  seized  my  hat,  and  rushed  from  my  cham- 
bers in  Ryder  Street.  An  electric  hansom  had  fortu- 
nately pulled  up  in  front  of  'em.  I  jumped  in.  'Where 
to  ? '  asked  the  chauffeur.  '  To  a  broken-hearted  mother, ' 
said  I,  '000,  Werkeley  Square,  and  drive  like  the 
dooce!'  " 

Hambridge  cleared  his  throat  with  some  pomp,  and 
crossed  his  little  legs  comfortably.  Then  he  went  on : 


THE    REVOLT    OF    RUSTLETON       97 

"Like  the  Belgian  sportsman,  who,  in  missin'  a  sittin* 
hare,  shot  his  father-in-law  in  the  stomach,  mine  was 
an  effort  not  altogether  wasted.  All  the  blinds  of  the 
house  were  down,  and  the  hysterical  shrieks  of  Lady 
Pomphrey  echoin '  through  practically  a  desert  of  rolled- 
up  carpets  and  swathed  furniture,  had  collected  a  small 
but  representative  crowd  about  the  area-railings.  I 
leaped  out  of  the  motor-cab,  threw  the  chauffeur  the  legal 
fare,  and  bein'  admitted  to  the  house  by  an  hysterical 
caretaker,  ascended  to  my  cousin's  boudoir,  the  sobs 
and  shrieks  of  the  distracted  mother  growing  louder  as 
I  went.  Dear  fellows,  when  Lady  Pomphrey  saw  me, 
heard  me  saying,  'Annabella,  I  must  entreat  you  as  a 
near  relative  to  calm  yourself  sufficiently  to  tell  me  the 
worst  without  delay,  or  to  direct  me  to  the  nearest  person 
who  can  supply  authentic  information,'  the  floodgates 
of  her  sorrow  were  opened  to  such  an  extent  that — pos- 
sessing a  constitution  naturally  susceptible  to  damp — I 
have  had  a  deuce  of  a  cold  ever  since. 

"Lord  Rustleton — always  a  nervous  faddist,  though 
the  dearest  of  fellows — Rustleton  had  suddenly  broken 
off  his  engagement  to  the  Hon.  Celine  Twissing,  only 
child  and  heiress  of  Lord  Twissing  of  Hopsacks,  the  co- 
lossal financier  figurehead,  as  I  call  him,  of  the  Brewing 
Trade.  Naturally,  the  young  man 's  mother  was  crushed 
by  the  blow.  The  marriage  was  to  have  been  solemnized 
at  the  opening  of  the  Winter  Season — the  trousseau  was 
nearly  ready,  and  the  cake — a  mammoth  pile  of  elabo- 
rate indigestion — was  bein'  built  up  in  tiers  at  Guz- 
zards'.  The  presents  (includin'  a  diamond  and  sapphire 
bangle  from  a  Royal  source)  had  come  in  in  shoals. 
Nothing  could  be  more  confoundedly  inopportune  than 
Rustleton 's  decision.  For  all  her  muscularity — and  she 
is  an  unpleasantly  muscular  young  woman — you  'd  marry 
her  yourself  to-morrow  did  you  get  the  chance,  dear 
fellow.  Vous  n'etes  pas  degoute. 


98       THE    REVOLT    OF    RUSTLETON 

"But  Rustleton's  a  difficult  man — always  was.  His 
personal  appearance  ain  't  prepossessin ',  but  he  is  Some- 
body, and  looks  it;  d'ye  f oiler  me?  You  feel  at  once 
that  a  long  line  of  ancestors,  more  or  less  distinguished, 
must  have  handed  down  the  bilious  tendency  from  father 
to  son.  Originally — which  goes  to  prove  that  first  im- 
pressions are  the  stronger — Lady  Pomphrey  tells  me  he 
could  not  stand  Celine  Twissing,  wouldn't  have  her  for 
nuts,  or  at  any  price;  but  after  the  disaster  to  the 
steam  yacht  Fifi — run  down  by  a  collier  at  her  moorings 
in  Southampton  Water,  you  recollect,  when  by  pure 
force  of  muscle  Miss  Twissing  snatched  Lord  Rustleton 
from  a  watery  grave,  so  to  put  it — he  seemed  to  cave 
in,  as  it  were,  and  the  engagement  was  formally  an- 
nounced. I  thought  his  eye  unsteady  and  his  laugh  hol- 
low, when,  with  the  rest  of  the  family,  I  proffered  my 
insignificant  congratulations.  On  that  occasion,  dear  fel- 
low, he  gave  me  two  fingers  instead  of  one,  which 
amounts  to  a  grip  with  him,  and  whispered  to  the  effect 
that  there  was  no  use  in  cryin'  over  spilled  milk — a 
familiar  saw  which  has  sprung  to  my  own  lips  at  the  most 
inopportune  moments. 

"Celine  was  undoubtedly  in  love.  Her  being  in  love, 
so  to  put  it,  added  immensely  to  Rustleton's  discom- 
fort. For  the  New  Girl  is,  as  well  as  a  muscular  being, 
a  strenuous  creature,  omnivorous  in  her  appetite  for 
mental  exercise,  and  from  the  latest  theories  in  physics 
to  the  morality  of  the  newest  Slavonic  novelist  Rustle- 
ton  was  expected  to  range  with  her  hour  by  hour.  Her 
mass  of  knowledge  oppressed  him,  her  inexhaustible 
fund  of  argument  exhausted  him,  her  fiery  enthusiasm 
reduced  him  to  a  condition  of  clammy  limpness  which 
was — I  may  say  it  openly — painful  to  witness.  A  back- 
ward Lower  boy  and  an  impatient  Head  Master  might 
have  presented  such  a  spectacle.  Thank  you,  I  will  take 
a  Vermouth,  since  you  are  so  kind.  But  the  boy,  in 


THE    REVOLT    OF    RUSTLETON       99 

getting  away  for  the  holidays,  had  the  advantage  of 
Rustleton,  poor  fellow!" 

Hambridge  waited  till  the  Vermouth  came,  and,  sip- 
ping the  tonic  fluid,  continued : 

"These  details,  I  need  not  say,  were  not  culled  from 
Lady  Poinphrey,  but  extracted  from  Eustleton,  who  had 
rushed  up  to  town  and  gone  to  earth  at  his  Club,  to  the 
consternation  of  the  few  waiters  who  were  not  taking 
holidays  at  the  seaside.  Little  by  little  I  became  master 
of  the  facts  of  the  case,  which  was  one  of  disparity  from 
the  outset.  From  the  muscular  as  from  the  intellectual 
point  Celine  Twissing  had  always  overshadowed  her  fian- 
ce. But  Celine 's  intimate  knowledge  of  the  mode  of  con- 
duct necessary — I  quote  herself — to  sane  living  and  clear 
thinking  positively  appalled  him.  Rustleton  began  the 
day  with  hot  Vichy  water,  dry  toast,  weak  tea,  and  a 
tepid  immersion.  She,  Miss  Twissing,  commenced  with 
Indian  clubs,  a  three-quarter-mile  sprint  in  sweaters, 
coffee,  eggs,  cold  game-pie,  ham,  jam,  muffins,  and  mar- 
malade. Did  she  challenge  the  man,  to  whom  she  was 
soon  to  pledge  lifelong  obedience  at  the  altar,  to  a  single 
at  lawn-tennis,  she  quite  innocently  served  him  twisters 
that  he  could  only  follow  with  his  eye,  and  volleyed  balls 
that  infallibly  hit  it.  At  croquet  she  was  a  scientist, 
winning  the  game  by  the  time  Lord  Rustleton  had  got 
through  three  hoops,  and  coming  back  to  stand  by  his 
side  and  goad  him  to  silent  frenzy  by  criticism  of  his 
method.  She  is  a  red-hot  motorist,  and  insisted  upon 
taking  Rustleton,  wrapped  in  fur  coats,  and  protected 
by  goggles,  as  passenger  in  the  back  seat  of  her  sixty- 
horse-power  'Gohard'  when  she  competed  in  the  Crook- 
lands  Circular  Track  One  Thousand  Mile  Platinum  Cup 
Race,  for  private  owners  only,  professional  drivers 
barred;  and  upon  my  honor,  I  believe  she  would  have 
pulled  up  the  winner  and  heroine  of  the  hour  had  not 
the  racing  diet  of  bananas,  meat  jujubes,  and  egg-nog 


100     THE    REVOLT    OF    RUSTLETON 

created  such  a  revolt  in  Rustleton's  system,  poor  fellow, 
that  at  the  sixth  hour  of  the  ordeal  he  was  borne,  almost 
insensible,  and  bathed  in  cold  perspiration,  from  the 
tonneau  to  a  neighboring  hotel. 

"To  anxiety,  in  combination  with  exploding  tires,  I 
attribute  the  fact  of  Miss  Twissing's  finishing  as  Num- 
ber Four.  Dear  fellow,  since  you  are  so  good  as  to 
insist,  I  will  put  that  cushion  behind  the  small  of  my 
back.  Lumbago,  in  damp  weather,  is  my  particular 
bane.  Thankee!" 

Hambridge  drew  forth  a  spotlessly  white  handker- 
chief, flourished  it,  and  trumpeted. 

' '  Now  we  come  to  the  crux,  dear  fellows.  The  Admir- 
able Twissing,  as  many  call  her,  not  content  with  bein' 
an  acknowledged  expert  in  salmon  fishin'  and  a  darin' 
rider  to  hounds,  set  her  heart  on  Rustleton  's  being  prac- 
tically the  same.  With  a  light  trout-rod  and  a  tin  of 
worms  he  has  occasionally  amoosed  himself  on  locally- 
preserved  waters;  mounted  on  an  easy-goin'  cob,  he  is, 
so  to  put  it,  fairly  at  home.  Scotch  and  Norwegian  rivers 
now,  shall  I  say,  claimed  him  as  their  sacrifice ;  highly- 
mettled  hunters — the  Hopsacks  stables  are  famous — took 
five-barred  gates  and  quickset  hedges  with  him;  occa- 
sionally even  bolted  with  him,  regardless  of  his  personal 
predilections.  In  the  same  spirit  his  betrothed  bride 
compelled  him  to  fence  with  her;  instructed  him,  at 
severe  physical  expense  to  himself,  in  the  rules  of  jiu- 
jitsu.  The  final  straw  was  laid  upon  the  camel's  back 
when  she  insisted  on  his  putting  on  the  gloves  with  her, 
and  standing  up  for  half  an  hour  every  morning  to 
be  scientifically  pummeled. " 

The  listeners'  mouths  screwed  themselves  into  the 
shape  of  long-expressive  whistles.  Glances  of  profound 
meaning  were  exchanged.  One  man  said,  with  a  gulp 
of  sympathy,  "Poor  beggar!" 

"And  so  the  worm  turned,"  said  Hambridge   Ost, 


THE  REVOLT  OF  RUSTLETON  101 

running  his  forefinger  round  inside  the  edge  of  his  col- 
lar. "Smarting  from  upper-cuts  administered  by  the 
woman  who  was  destined  ere  long  to  become  the  wife  of 
his  bosom,  flushed  from  having  his  head  in  Chancery, 
gravely  embarrassed  by  body-blows,  dazzled  by  stars 
and  stripes  seen  as  the  result  of  merciless  punches  re- 
ceived upon  the  nose,  Rustleton  summoned  all  his  cour- 
age to  the  effort,  and  declined  to  take  any  more  lessons. 
Miss  Twissing,  to  do  her  justice,  was  thunderstruck. 

"  'Oh!'  she  said,  her  lips  quivering — like  a  hurt 
child's,  according  to  Rustleton — 'and  you  were  coming 
on  so  capitally — we  were  getting  on  so  well.  You  are 
really  gaining  a  knowledge  of  good  boxing  principles, 
you  were  actually  benefiting  by  our  light  little  friendly 
spars.'  Rustleton  felt  his  nose,  which  was  painfully 
swollen.  'Of  course,  you  could  never,  never  become  a 
first-rater.  Your  poor  little  muscles  are  too  rigid.  You 
haven't  the  strength  to  hit  a  print  of  your  knuckles 
into  a  pound  of  butter,  but  you  might  come  to  show 
form  enough  to  funk  a  big  duffer,  supposing  he  went 
for  you  under  the  impression  that  you  were  as  soft  as 
you  look.  But,  of  course,  if  you  mean  what  you  say' — 
she  pulled  her  gloves  off  and  threw  them  into  a  corner 
of  the  gymnasium  at  Hopsacks  specially  fitted  up  for 
her  by  a  noted  firm — 'there  they  go.  I'll  read  the 
Greek  Anthologists  with  you  instead,  or' — her  eyes 
brightened — 'have  you  ever  tried  polo?'  she  asked.  'We 
have  some  trained  ponies  in  the  stable,  and  the  largest 
croquet-lawn  could  be  utilized  for  a  ground,  and  I'll 
wire  to  the  County  Players  for  clubs  and  a  couple  of 
members  to  teach  us  the  rules  of  the  game.  You'll  like 
that?' 

"  '  I  'm  dashed  if  I  shall ! '  were  the  actual  words  that 
burst,  so  to  put  it,  from  Rustleton.  Celine  drew  her- 
self up  and  looked  him  over,  from  the  feet  upwards,  as 
though  she  had  never,  so  he  says,  seen  him  before.  Five 


102     THE    REVOLT    OF    RUSTLETON 

feet  five — his  actual  height — gave  her  an  advantage  of 
five  inches  and  a  bit  over.  He  begged  her  to  be  seated, 
and,  standing  before  her  in  as  dignified  an  attitude 
as  it  is  possible  to  assume  in  a  light  suit  of  gymnasium 
flannels,  with  sawdust  in  your  hair  and  a  painfully 
swollen  nose,  he  broke  the  ice  and  demanded  his  release 
from  their  engagement,  saying  that  he  felt  it  incumbent 
on  him  to  live  his  own  life  in  his  own  way,  that  Celine 
crushed,  humiliated,  and  oppressed  him  by  the  mere 
vigor  of  her  intellect  and  the  exuberance  of  her  phys- 
ical personality — with  considerably  more  to  the  same 
effect. 

"She  looked  up  when  Rustleton,  almost  breathless, 
reached  a  full  stop.  'You  give  me  your  word  of  honor 
that  there  is  no  other  woman  in  the  case, '  she  murmured ; 
'I  can  stand  your  not  loving  me,  I  can't  your  loving 
somebody  else  better.'  As  Rustleton  gave  the  required 
denial — scouted  the  bare  idea — a  tear  ran  down  her 
cheek  and  dropped  on  her  large  powerful  arms,  which 
were  folded  upon  her  bust — really  amazing,  dear  fel- 
low, and  one  of  her  strong  points.  'That  settles  it,'  she 
uttered.  'It's  understood,  all's  off  between  us;  you  are 
free.  And  there  is  a  through  express  to  London  at 
3:25.  But  I'm  afraid  I  must  detain  you  a  moment 
longer.'  She  rang  the  bell,  and  told  a  servant  to  tell 
Professor  Pudsey  she  was  wanted  in  the  gym.  'Tell 
her  to  come  in  sparring  kit,  and  be  quick  about  it, '  were 
her  actual  words. 

"Until  the  Professor  appeared,  Miss  Twissing  chatted 
quite  pleasantly  with  Rustleton.  The  Professor  was  a 
large,  flat-faced  woman,  of  remarkable  muscular  devel- 
opment, with  her  hair  coiled  in  a  tight  knob  at  the  back 
of  her  head,  her  massive  form  attired  in  a  thin  jersey, 
short  serge  skirt,  long  stockings,  and  light  gymnasium 
shoes.  'Let  me  introduce  my  friend  and  resident  in- 
structress in  boxing,  fencing,  and  athletics, '  says  Celine, 


THE  REVOLT  OF  RUSTLETON   103 

'and  one  of  the  best,  so  to  put  it,  that  ever  put  a  novice 
through  his  paces.  Celebrated  as  the  wife  and  trainer  of 
the  late  Ponto  Pudsey,  Heavy-weight  Champion  of  Eng- 
land, and  holder  of  the  Hyam's  Competition  Belt  three 
seasons  running  until  beat  by  Bat  Collins  at  the  Inter- 
national Club  Grounds  in  '92.  Pudsey  dear' — she 
turned  to  the  Professor — 'you  know  my  little  way  when 
I've  had  a  set-back.  Instead  of  playing  le  Motile  a 
quatre  and  being  disagreeable  and  cantankerous  all 
round,  I  simply  send  for  you  and  say,  as  I  say  now, 
"Put  up  your  hands,  and  do  your  best;  I  warn  you 
I'm  going  in  for  a  regular  slugging  match  under  the 
rules  of  the  Amateur  Boxing  Association.  Three  rounds 
— the  first  and  second  of  three  minutes'  length,  the  third 
of  four  minutes '.  This  gentleman  will  act  as  time-keeper, 
and  pick  up  whichever  of  us  gets  knocked  out.  He  has 
plenty  of  time  before  he  catches  the  express  to  town — 
and  the  lesson  will  be  good  for  him."  She  and  the 
Professor  shook  hands,  and,  with  heads  erect,  mouths 
firmly  closed,  eyes  fixed,  left  toes  straight,  bodies  evenly 
balanced,  left  arms  workin'  loosely,  rights  well  across 
mark,  and  so  forth,  started  business  in  the  most  thor- 
ough-goin'  way.  Such  a  bout  of  fisticuffs — accordin'  to 
Rustleton — you  couldn't  behold  outside  the  American 
prize-ring. ' ' 

"By — Jingo!"  ejaculated  one  of  the  listeners. 

"They  led  off  in  a  perfectly  scientific  manner  at  the 
head,  guarded  and  returned,  retreated  and  advanced, 
ducked,  feinted,  countered,  and  cross-countered,"  said 
Hambridge  Ost,  "until  Rustleton  grew  giddy.  Terrific 
hits  were  given  and  taken  before  he  could  command 
himself  sufficiently  to  call  'Time,'  the  Professor  with  a 
black  eye,  Celine  with  a  cut  lip,  both  of  'em  smilin'  and 
self-possessed  to  an  astonishin'  degree;  went  in  again 
at  the  end  of  the  brief  breathin '  space,  and  fairly  outdid 
the  previous  round.  When  a  smashin'  knock-out  on 


104     THE    REVOLT    OF    RUSTLETON 

the  point  of  the  jaw  finally  floored  the  Professor  and 
she  failed  to  come  up  to  time,  leavin'  Miss  Twissing 
mistress  of  the  gory  field,  Celine  nodded  significantly  to 
Rustleton,  and  said,  as  she  rolled  down  her  sleeves,  '  That 
would  have  been  for  you,  Russie,  old  boy,  if  there  had 
been  another  woman  in  the  case.  As  there  isn't — good- 
bye, and  good  luck  go  with  you !  I  'm  going  to  put  dear 
old  Pudsey  to  bed,  and  plaster  this  cut  lip  of  mine. '  ' 

"I  like  that  girl!"  declared  the  man  who  had  said 
"By  Jingo!"  "A  rattling  good  sort,  I  call  her.  But 
a  punch-bag  would  have  done  as  well  as  the  Professor, 
I  should  have  thought."  He  tugged  at  his  mustache 
and  wrinkled  his  forehead  thoughtfully.  "A  damaged 
lip  is  so  fearfully  disfiguring.  Has  it  quite  healed?" 

' '  I  know  nothing  of  Miss  Twissing, ' '  said  Hambridge, 
settling  his  necktie,  ' '  and  desire  to  know  nothing  of  that 
very  unfeminine  young  person,  who,  I  feel  sure,  would 
have  been  as  good  as  her  word  and  pounded  Rustleton 
into  a  human  jelly,  had  she  been  aware  that  there  actu- 
ally existed,  if  I  may  so  put  it,  an  adequate  feminine 
reason  for  the  dear  fellow's — shall  I  say,  change  of 
mind?" 

"Of  course,"  said  the  man  who  had  been  anxious 
about  Miss  Twissing's  lip,  "the  little  bounder — beg  par- 
don !  Of  course,  Rustleton  was  telling  a  colossal  howler. 
As  all  the  world  knows,  or  will  know  when  the  news- 
papers come  out  to-morrow,  there  was  another  woman 
in  the  case." 

"Petsie  Le  Poyntz,"  put  in  another  voice,  "of  the 
West  End  Theater.  Petsie  of  the  lissom — ahem ! — limbs, 
of  the  patent  mechanical  smile — mistress  of  the  wink  that 
convulses  the  gallery,  and  inventor  of  the  kick  that  en- 
raptures the  stalls.  Petsie,  who  has  won  her  way  into 
what  Slump,  of  the  Morning  Gush,  calls  the  'peculiar 
favor  of  the  British  playgoer,'  by  her  exquisite  and 
spontaneous  rendering  of  the  ballad,  'Buzzy,  Buzzy, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    RUSTLETON      105 

Busy  Bee,'  sung  nightly  and  at  two  matinees  per  week 
in  The  Charity  Girl.  Petsie,  once  the  promised  bride  of 
a  thriving  young  greengrocer,  now " 

"Now,  Viscountess  Rustleton,"  said  Hambridge  Ost. 
"Don't  forget  that,  dear  fellow,  pray.  I  can  conceive, 
even  while  I  condemn  my  cousin's  ill-considered  action 
in  taking  to  his — shall  I  say  bosom?  yesterday  morning 
at  the  Registrar's — a  young  lady  of  obvious  gifts  and 
obscure  parentage  without  letting  his  family  into  the 
secret — that  he  found  her  a  soothing  change  from  Miss 
Twissing.  No  Greek,  no  athletics,  no  strenuousness  of 
any  kind.  An  appearance  distinctly  pleasing,  even  off 
the  boards,  a  certain  command  of  repartee  of  the  '  You  're 
another'  sort,  an  agreeable  f riskiness  varied  by  an  in- 
clination to  lounge  languidly — and  there  you  have  Petsie, 
dear  fellow.  The  weddin'  breakfast  took  place  at  the 
Grill  Room  of  the  Savoy  Hotel,  the  extra-sized  table, 
number  three,  at  the  east  upper  end  against  the  glass 
partition  havin'  been  specially  engaged  by  the  manage- 
ment of  the  West  End  Theater.  That,  not  bein'  an 
invited  guest,  I  ascertained  from  the  waiter  who 
usually  looks  after  me  when  I  lunch  there.  The  menu 
was  distinctly  a  good  'un.  Hors  d'auvres  ...  a  bisque, 
follered  by  turban  de  turbot.  .  .  .  Birds  with  bread- 
cream  sauce,  chipped  potatoes,  tomatoes  stuffed,  and  a 
corn  salad.  Chocolate  omelette  soufflee — ices  in  the  shape 
of  those  corrugated  musk  melons  with  pink  insides,  figs, 
and  nectarines.  Of  course,  a  claret  figured — Chateau- 
Nitouche ;  but,  bein '  a  theatrical  entertainment,  the  Boy 
washed  the  whole  thing  down.  The  name  of  the  liqueur 
I  did  not  get  hold  of." 

"Parfait  Amour,  perhaps?"  said  a  feeble  voice,  with 
a  faint  chuckle. 

' '  As  I  have  said,  I  failed  to  ascertain, ' '  returned  Ham- 
bridge  Ost,  with  a  dry  little  cough.  "But  as  Lord 
Pomphrey,  justly  indignant  with  his  heir  for  throwing 


106     THE    REVOLT    OF    RUSTLETON 

over  Miss  Twissing,  with  whose  hand  goes  a  colossal  for- 
tune, has  practically  reduced  his  income  to  a  mere" — 
he  elevated  his  eyebrows  and  blew  a  speck  of  cigar-ash 
from  his  coat-sleeve — "that — the  stirrup-cup  that  sped 
my  cousin  and  his  bride  upon  their  wedding  journey 
was  certainly  not,  shall  I  say,  Aqua  d'Orof" 

There  was  a  faint  chorus  of  applause.  Hambridge, 
repressing  all  sign  of  triumph,  smoothed  his  preternatu- 
rally  sleek  head  and  uncrossed  his  little  legs  preparatory 
to  getting  out  of  his  chair.  The  circle  of  listeners  melted 
away ;  the  man  who  had  said  ' '  By  Jingo ! ' '  straightened 
his  hat  carefully,  staring  at  the  reflection  of  a  distinctly 
good-looking  face  in  the  mantel-glass. 

"If  she  had  known — if  that  girl  Celine  Twissing  had 
known — the  game  that  bilious  little  rotter  meant  to 
play,  he'd  have  had  his  liqueur  before  his  soup,  and  it 
would  have  been  punch — not  Milk  Punch  or  Turtle 
Punch,  but  the  real  thing,  with  trimmings."  He  ar- 
ranged a  very  neat  mustache  with  care.  "Sorry  she 
got  her  lip  split,"  he  murmured;  "hope  it's  healed  all 
right.  .  .  .  Waiter,  get  me  a  dozen  Sobranie  cigarettes. 
It's  a  pity,  a  confounded  pity,  that  the  only  man  who 
is  really  able  to  appreciate  that  grand  girl  Celine  Twis- 
sing happens  to  be  a  younger  son.  But,  anyhow,  I  can 
have  a  shot  at  her,  and  I  will." 


A  DYSPEPTIC'S  TRAGEDY 

"HE  is  a  constant  visitor/'  observed  Lady  Millebrook. 

"And  a  constant  friend,"  said  Mrs.  Tollebranch.  A 
delicate  flush  mantled  on  her  otherwise  ivory  cheek,  her 
great  gray  eyes,  famed  for  their  far-away,  saintly  ex- 
pression, shone  through  a  gleaming  veil  of  tears.  With 
the  lithe,  undulating  movement  so  characteristic  of  her, 
she  crossed  the  velvety  carpets  to  the  window,  and,  lift- 
ing a  corner  of  her  silken  blind,  peeped  out  over  her 
window-boxes  of  jonquils  as  the  hall-door  closed,  and  a 
well-dressed  man  with  a  slight  stoop  and  a  worn,  dyspep- 
tic countenance  went  slowly  down  the  doorsteps  and 
got  into  his  cab.  As  though  some  subtle  magnetic  thrill 
had  conveyed  to  him  the  knowledge  that  fair  eyes  looked 
on  his  departure,  he  glanced  up  and  bowed,  for  one 
moment  becoming  a  younger  man,  as  a  temporary  glow 
suffused  his  pallid  features.  Then  the  cab  drove  off,  and 
Mrs.  Tollebranch,  slipping  her  hand  within  the  arm  of 
Lady  Millebrook,  drew  her  back  to  her  cosy  seat  within 
the  radius  of  the  fire-glow,  and  rang  for  tea. 

"I  did  not  have  it  up  while  poor  Cadminster  was 
here, ' '  she  explained.  ' '  The  sight  of  Sally  Lunn  is  hor- 
rible to  him,  and  he  is  positively  forbidden  tea. ' ' 

' '  They  say, ' '  said  Lady  Millebrook,  nibbling  the  Sally 
Lunn,  "that  he  lives  upon  gluten  biscuits,  lean  boiled 
mutton,  and  white  fish,  washed  down  by  weak  Medoc, 
mixed  with  hot  water." 

"It  is  true,"  returned  her  friend. 

"And  yet  he  dines  out.  I  meet  him  comparatively 
often  at  other  people's  tables,"  said  Lady  Millebrook. 

107 


108          A   DYSPEPTIC'S    TRAGEDY 

"And  here — invariably."  Her  eyebrows  wore  the 
crumple  of  interrogation. 

"The  servants  have  orders  to  pass  him  over,"  ex- 
plained Mrs.  Tollebranch,  sipping  her  tea.  "If  Jerks 
or  Wilbraham  were  to  offer  him  a  made  dish,  one,  if 
not  both  of  them,  would  be  instantly  dismissed." 

"My  dear  Clarice!  Friendship  is  friendship.  .  .  . 
But  Jerks  and  Wilbraham.  .  .  .  Such  invaluable  ser- 
vants !  You  cannot  mean  what  you  say ! ' ' 

"  I  do  mean  it, ' '  nodded  Mrs.  Tollebranch.  ' '  Oh,  Bet- 
tine  ! ' '  she  murmured,  clasping  Lady  Millebrook  's  hand, 
"don't  look  so  surprised.  If  you  only  knew  how  much 
that  man  has  sacrificed  for  me!" 

"If  there  is  anything  upon  which  I  pride  myself," 
observed  Lady  Millebrook,  "it  is  my  absolute  lack  of 
curiosity.  And  yet  people  are  always  telling  me  their 
secrets — the  most  intimate,  the  most  important!  'Bet- 
tine,'  they  say,  'you  are  a  Grave!'  ...  So  I  am;  it  is 
quite  true.  A  thing  once  repeated  in  my  hearing  is 
buried  for  ever!  We  have  not  known  each  other  very 
long,  it  is  true,  but  you  must  have  discovered  that  I  am 
absolutely  reliable!  Talking  of  sacrifices,  there  are  so 
many  sorts.  Now  perhaps  in  your  gratitude  for  this 
service  rendered  you  by  Lord  Cadminster,  you  overrate. 
Perhaps  it  is  really  not  so  great  as  you  imagine !  Per- 
haps .  .  .  !  But  I  am  not  curious  in  the  least ! ' ' 

"Would  it  surprise  you  to  hear,"  queried  Mrs.  Tolle- 
branch, "that  Cadminster,  two  years  ago,  was  perfectly 
healthy!  Not  the  cadaverous  dyspeptic  he  is  now;  not 
the  semi-invalid,  but  a  robust,  healthy,  fresh-colored 
man  of  the  out-of-doors,  hardy  English  type?" 

Lady  Millebrook  elevated  her  eyebrows.  "Dear  me," 
she  observed.  "How  very  odd!  And  now — you  know 
his  horrid  soubriquet — '  The  Boiled  Owl. '  He  has  earned 
it  since,  of  course." 

"fie  had  a  splendid  appetite  once,"  continued  Mrs. 


A    DYSPEPTIC'S    TRAGEDY          109 

Tollebranche,  "an  iron  constitution — a  perfect  diges- 
tion. He  gave  them  all  three  to  save  a  woman's  honor. 
Oh!  Bettine,  can  you  guess  who  the  woman  was?" 

"I  never  hazard  guesses  about  my  friends,"  said  the 
inexorable  Lady  Millebrook.  ' '  But  I  feel,  somehow,  that 
she  may  have  been  you?" 

"I  was  weak,"  admitted  Mrs.  Tollebranch,  clasping 
her  friend's  hand  with  agitated  jeweled  fingers.  "But 
not  wicked,  Bettine.  Promise  me  to  believe  that!" 

"I  never  promise,"  said  Bettine,  "but  no  one  could 
look  at  you  and  doubt  that  .  .  .  whatever  you  'might  do, 
would  be  the  outcome  of  irresistible  impulse,  not  the 
result  of  deliberate — ahem!  My  dearest,  you  interest 
me  indescribably,"  she  cried,  "and  if  I  were  the  least 
bit  inclined  to  curiosity,  I  am  sure  I  should  implore  you 
to  go  on." 

"You  shall  hear  the  story  of  Cadminster's  Great  Sac- 
rifice, Bettine,"  said  Mrs.  Tollebranch,  "and  when  you 
have  heard,  you  will  regard  him " 

' '  As  Bayard  and  all  the  other  heroes  of  chivalry  rolled 
into  one,  and  dressed  by  a  Bond  Street  tailor,"  inter- 
rupted Lady  Millebrook,  with  a  glow  of  impatience  in 
her  fine  dark  eyes.  "I  think  you  mentioned  two  years 
ago?"  she  added,  settling  a  little  stray  lock  of  her 
friend's  silken  blonde  hair,  and  sinking  back  among 
her  cushions. 

"Two  years  ago,"  murmured  Mrs.  Tollebranch,  "Wil- 
librand  became  bitten  with  the  Golf  Spider.  He  is  as 
wild  about  the  game  to-day,"  she  added,  "as  ever." 

' '  There  is  a  proverb, '  Once  a  golfer,  always  a  golfer, '  ' 
put  in  Lady  Millebrook.  "I  believe  that  to  play  the 
game  successfully  requires  a  vast  amount  of  thought  and 
judgment,  which  insensibly  diverts  a  man's  mind  from 
less  harmless  topics,  and  that  it  entails  an  invigorating 
and  healthy  action  of  the  arms  and  legs,  soothing  to  the 
nervous  system,  and  improving  in  its  effect  upon  the 


110          A    DYSPEPTIC'S    TRAGEDY 

temper.  Were  I  asked  by  any  married  woman  of  my 
acquaintance  whether  she  should  encourage  her  husband 
in  his  devotion  to  golf,  or  dissuade  him  from  it,  I  should 
advise  her  to  encourage  the  fad.  The  game,  unlike 
others,  can  be  played  all  the  year  round,  in  sunshine, 
rain,  or  snow." 

"Willibrand  used  to  play  it  in  the  snow,"  put  in 
Mrs.  Tollebranch,  ' '  with  red  balls.  It  was  when  we  were 
spending  March  at  Tobermuirie  two  years  ago,  that " 

"That  Lord  Cadminster  performed  the  chivalrous  ac- 
tion which  resulted  for  him  in  the  permanent  loss  of  his 
digestion?  Well?" 

"Tobermuirie  is  the  bleakest  spot  in  North  Britain," 
began  Mrs.  Tollebranch,  returning  the  teacups  to  the 
tray,  and  touching  the  electric  bell  in  a  manner  which 
conveyed  the  intimation  that  she  would  not  be  at  home 
to  any  caller  for  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour.  "The 
castle  is  one  of  the  oldest  inhabited  residences  in  Eu- 
rope, and,  I  verily  believe,  the  coldest.  If  you  would 
like  to  find  out  for  yourself  how  easily  a  northern  gale 
can  penetrate  walls  ten  feet  thick  in  the  thinnest  places, 
come  to  us  in  July." 

"I  shall  make  a  point  of  it!"  said  Lady  Mille- 
brook,  cuddling  down  into  her  warm,  scented  lair  of 
cushions. 

"Of  course,  the  male  division  of  the  house-party  was 
made  up  of  golfing  enthusiasts,"  went  on  Mrs.  Tolle- 
branch. "Major  Wharfling,  Sir  Roger  Balcombe,  Cad- 
minster,  who  was  as  keen  as  Willibrand  in  those  days, 
three  Guardsmen,  and  D'Arsy  Pontoise." 

' '  By  the  way,  what  has  become  of  Pontoise  ? ' '  queried 
Lady  Millebrook.  "One  never  meets  him  now  as  one 
used." 

"He  scarcely  ever  leaves  Paris,  I  believe,"  returned 
Mrs.  Tollebranch,  rather  constrainedly.  "Since  his  rec- 
onciliation with  the  Due,  his  great-uncle,  and  his  mar- 


A    DYSPEPTIC'S    TRAGEDY          111 

riage  with  Mademoiselle  De  Carapoix,  who  I  have  heard 
is  a  very  strict  Catholic  and  humpbacked " 

"Besides  being  a  great  heiress.  ...  Of  course,  he  is 
kept  well  within  bounds.  But  what  a  fascinating  crea- 
ture Pontoise  used  to  be.  Bubbling  with  life,  effervescing 
with  spirits.  Sadly  naughty,  too,  I  fear,  for  the  names 
of  at  least  half  a  dozen  pretty  married  women  used  to 
be  mixed  up  with  his  in  all  sorts  of  scan  .  .  .  My  dear- 
est, I  beg  your  pardon ! ' ' 

"I,  at  least,  was  not  wicked — only  weak!"  said  Clar- 
ice, with  icy  dignity.  "And  as  to  there  being  five 
others " 

"My  sweet,  it  was  the  vaguest  hearsay.  Nothing  cer- 
tain, except  that  Pontoise  spoke  perfect  English  and  was 
a  veritable  Apollo !  I  can  imagine  the  rigors  of  impris- 
onment in  a  Border  castle  in  March  to  have  been  ame- 
liorated by  the  fact  of  his  being  a  guest  under  its  aged 
roof.  Did  he  play  golf?" 

Mrs.  Tollebranch  rose  and  took  a  dainty  screen  of 
crimson  feathers  from  the  high  mantelshelf. 

' '  He  tried  to  learn, ' '  she  explained,  holding  the  screen 
so  as  to  shield  her  delicate  complexion  from  the  glowing 
heat  of  the  log  fire.  "But  the  game  baffled  him.  To 
play  it  properly,  I  believe,  the  mind  must  be  dead  to 
all  other  interests " 

"And  Pontoise 's  mind  was  unusually  alive  at  that 
particular  moment  to  things  outside  the  sphere  of  golf, ' ' 
mused  Lady  Millebrook.  ' '  Golf  is  a  game  for  husbands, 
not  for "  Her  red  lips  closed  on  the  unuttered  word. 

"Don't  say,  'lovers'!"  implored  Clarice.  "From  be- 
ginning to  end,  Bettine,  it  was  nothing  but  a  flirtation. 
I  will  own  that  I  was — attracted,  almost  fascinated.  I 
had  never  met  a  human  being  whose  nature  was  of  so 
many  colors  .  .  .  whose  soul  ..."  She  broke  off. 

"I  have  been  informed  on  good  authority,"  observed 
Lady  Millebrook,  "that  whenever  Pontoise  meant  mis- 


A    DYSPEPTIC'S    TRAGEDY 

chief  he  invariably  talked  about  his  soul.  But  do  go 
on! 

"Of  course,  you  played  golf  also;  and  as  one  of  the 
great  advantages  connected  with  the  game  is  that  you 
can  choose  your  own  partner,  I  may  presume  that  Pon- 
toise  made  acquaintance  with  it  under  your  auspices,  and 
that  when  he  landed  himself  in  the  jaws  of  some  terrific 
sand-bunker,  you  were  at  hand  to  help  him  out." 

"As  his  hostess,  it  was  rather  incumbent  upon  me," 
explained  Mrs.  Tollebranch,  "to  make  myself  of  use. 
Willibrand  and  Sir  Roger  Balcombe  termed  him  a  duf- 
fer ;  Major  Wharfling  is  nothing  but  a  professional,  Cad- 
minster  and  the  Guardsmen  were  hard  drivers  all.  And 
as  Bluefern  had  made  me  a  golfing  costume  which  was 
a  perfect  dream " 

"You  completed  the  conquest  of  Pontoise.  I  quite 
understand ! ' '  said  Bettine.  ' '  In  that  frock,  armed  with 
a  long  spoon.  I  quite  grasp  it." 

"The  golf  course  is  very  open  at  Tobermuirie, "  went 
on  Clarice,  playing  with  the  feather  fan. 

' '  But  there  are  hillocks,  and  bumps  and  boulders,  and 
things  behind  which  Pontoise  managed  to  get  in  a  good 
many  references  to  his  soul.  I  grasp  that  also,"  ob- 
served Lady  Millebrook. 

' '  He  did  mention  his  soul, ' '  admitted  Mrs.  Tollebranch. 
"He  said  that  it  had  always  been  lonely,  thirsting  for 
the  sympathy  of  a  sister-spirit  until " 

"Until  he  met  you!" 

"He  did  say  as  much.  And  he  explained  how,  in 
sheer  desperation  of  ever  meeting  the  affinity,  the  flame 
for  whom  the  spark  of  his  being  had  been  originally 
kindled,  a  man  may  drift  into  all  kinds  of  follies,  even 
gain  the  name  of  a  libertine  and  a  roue." 

"Quite  true." 

"He  has  such  wonderful  eyes,  like  moss  agates,  and 
his  profile  is  like  the  Hermes  of  Praxiteles,  or  would  be 


A   DYSPEPTIC'S    TRAGEDY          113 

but  for  the  waxed  mustache  and  crisp,  golden  beard. 
And  there  is  a  vibrating  timbre  in  his  voice  that  goes 
to  the  very  heart.  One  could  not  but  be  sorry  for  him. ' ' 

"I  am  sure  you  were  very  sorry  indeed.  But  Pontoise, 
as  one  knows  of  him,  would  not  long  be  content  with 
that.  Your  heartfelt  pity,  and  the  tip  of  your  little 
finger  to  kiss.  ..."  Lady  Millebrook's  sleepily  dark 
eyes  smiled  cynical  amusement.  "Those  things  are  the 
hors  d'ceuvres  of  flirtation.  Soup,  fish,  made-dishes, 
roast,  and  sweets  invariably  succeed,  with  black  coffee 
and  a  subsequent  indigestion." 

Clarice  avoided  the  glance  of  this  feminine  philos- 
opher. 

"Pontoise  was  always  respectful,"  she  said,  with  a 
little  note  of  defiance  in  her  voice.  "He  never  forgot 
what  was  due  to  me  save  once,  when " 

"When  it  was  borne  in  upon  him  too  strongly  what 
he  owed  to  himself.  And  then  he  kissed  you,  and  you 
were  furiously  angry." 

' '  Furious ! ' '  nodded  Clarice,  brushing  her  round  chin 
with  the  edge  of  the  crimson  screen.  ' '  I  vowed  I  would 
never  speak  to  him  again." 

' '  And  how  long  did  you  keep  that  oath  ? ' '  asked  Bet- 
tine. 

"We  met  at  dinner  in  the  evening,  and  of  course  one 
has  to  be  civil.  And  when  I  went  to  bed,  and  he  handed 
me  my  candlestick,"  said  Mrs.  Tollebranch — "for  gas 
is  only  laid  as  high  as  the  first  floor  of  the  castle,  and 
the  electric  light  has  never  been  heard  of — he  slipped 
a  note  into  my  hand.  It  implored  my  pardon,  and  de- 
clared that  unless  I  would  meet  him  in  the  golf-house 
on  the  links  next  day  before  lunch,  and  receive  his  pro- 
found apologies,  he  would  terminate  an  existence  which 
my  well-deserved  scorn  had  rendered  insupportable.  He 
spoke  of  the — the "  Clarice  hesitated. 

"The  kiss,"  put  in  Lady  Millebrook,  "and " 


114          A    DYSPEPTIC'S    TRAGEDY 

"Said  he  had  dared,  in  a  moment  of  insanity,  to 
desecrate  the  cheek  of  the  purest  woman  breathing  with 
lips  that  ought  to  be  branded  for  their  criminal  pre- 
sumption. He  could  never  atone,  he  ended,  but  he  could 
never  forget." 

"And  asked  you  in  the  postscript  to  meet  him  in  the 
golf -house.  I  quite  understand,"  observed  Lady  Mille- 
brook.  "Of  course,  you  didn't  go?" 

Clarice's  lovely  gray-blue  eyes  opened.  Her  sensitive 
lips  quivered. 

"Oh!  but  I  am  afraid  ..."  She  heaved  a  little  re- 
gretful sigh  over  her  past  folly.  ' '  That  is  where  I  was 
weak,  Bettine.  I  went.  Oh,  don't  laugh!" 

"My  child,  this  is  hysteria,"  explained  Lady  Mille- 
brook,  removing  the  filmy  handkerchief  from  her  lovely 
eyes.  "Well — you  went.  You  popped  your  head  into 
the  lion's  mouth — and  somehow  or  other  Cadminster 
played  the  deus  ex  machina,  and  got  it  out  for  you 
again. ' ' 

"The  golf -house  was  a  queer  shanty,  with  a  tarred 
roof, ' '  said  Mrs.  Tollebranch  retrospectively.  ' '  It  held  a 
bunker  of  coals,  and  stands  for  clubs,  and  a  fireplace, 
and  a  folding  luncheon-table,  and  camp-stools,  and  ham- 
pers. We  used  to  lunch  outside  when  it  didn't  rain  or 
snow,  and  inside  when  it  did.  Well,  when  Willibrand 
and  Sir  Roger  Balcombe,  Major  Wharfling,  the  Guards- 
men, and  Cadminster  were  quite  out  of  sight,  Pontoise 
and  I  somehow  found  ourselves  back  at  the  golf -house. 
I  was  cold,  and  there  was  a  fire  there,  and  he  looked  so 
handsome  and  so  miserable  as  he  stood  bareheaded  by 
the  door,  waiting  for  me  to  enter,  that " 

"The  fly  walked  in.    And  then  the  spider " 

"He  disappointed  me,  I  will  own,"  said  Clarice,  with 
a  little  gulp.  "After  all  his  penitent  protestations!  I 
have  never  trusted  men  with  agate-colored  eyes  since, 
and  I  never  will.  They  have  only  one  idea  of  women, 


A    DYSPEPTIC'S    TRAGEDY          115 

and  that  is — the  worst.  But  when  I  ordered  him  to  let 
go  my  hands  and  get  up  from  his  knees,  something  in 
my  face  or  voice  seemed  to  tell  him  that  I  was  really, 
really,  in  earnest,  and  he  obeyed  me,  and  moved  suddenly 
away  as  I  went  to  the  door.  The  latch  rattled  as  I  lifted 
my  hand,  the  door  opened ;  Cadminster  stood  there, 
white  from  head  to  foot,  for  a  sudden  blizzard  had  swept 
down  from  the  hills,  and  the  links  were  four  inches 
deep  in  snow.  Oh!  I  shall  never  forget  how  tactful  he 
was !  '  You  have  got  here  before  the  rest  of  us ! '  he  said, 
quite  in  a  cheery,  ordinary  way.  '  Lucky  for  you !  Tolle- 
branch  and  the  others  are  coming  after  me  as  hard  as 
they  can  pelt,  and  we  shall  have  to  put  out  the  "House 
Full"  boards  in  a  minute.'  And  he  began  to  rattle  out 
the  flaps  of  the  luncheon-table,  and  get  out  things  from 
the  hamper,  and  then  he  looked  at  me,  and  said,  as  he 
lifted  the  lid  from  a  great  kettle  of  Irish  stew  that  had 
been  simmering  over  the  fire,  '  Suppose  you  were  to  take 
the  ladle  and  give  this  mess  a  bit  of  a  stir,  Mrs.  Tolle- 
branch!  The  fire  will  burn  your  face,  I'm  afraid,  but 
what  woman  wouldn't  sacrifice  her  complexion  in  the 
cause  of  duty  ? '  Oh,  Bettine,  I  could  have  blessed  Cad- 
minster  as  I  seized  that  iron  ladle,  for  seeming  so  nat- 
ural and  at  ease.  And  then — almost  before  I  had  begun 
to  stir  the  stew — while  I  was  bending  over  the  pot, 
"Willibrand  and  the  other  men  came  in.  What  followed 
I  can  never  forget ! ' ' 

"Now  we  come  to  Cadminster 's  great  act  of  heroism?" 
interrogated  Lady  Millebrook. 

"Willibrand  came  in  stamping  the  snow  off,"  went 
on  Mrs.  Tollebranch.  ' '  So  did  all  the  other  men.  Willi- 
brand sniffed  the  odor  of  the  oniony  stew  with  rapture. 
All  the  other  men  sniffed  too." 

"The  tastes  of  the  male  animal  are  extraordinarily 
simple, ' '  observed  Lady  Millebrook, ' '  in  spite  of  the  elab- 
orate pretense  carried  on  and  kept  up  by  him,  of  being 


116          A    DYSPEPTIC'S    TRAGEDY 

a  gourmand  and  a  connoisseur.  The  coarsest  dishes  are 
those  which  appeal  most  irresistibly  to  his  palate,  and 
when  I  find  it  necessary  for  any  length  of  time  to  chain 
Millebrook  to  his  home,  I  order  a  succession  of  barbaric 
plats.  By  the  time  we  have  reached  tripe  and  onions, 
served  as  an  en-tree,  there  is  not  a  more  domesticated 
husband  breathing.  But  pray  continue. ' ' 

"They  all  assembled  round  the  stewpot/'  went  on 
Clarice,  "and  watched  with  absorbed  interest  the  opera- 
tion of  turning  its  steaming  contents  into  the  dish  that 
awaited  them.  Cadminster  and  Willibrand  undertook 
this  duty.  Well " 

"Well?" 

' '  Just  as  they  heaved  up  the  steaming  cauldron,  Willi- 
brand called  out,  'Hulloa,  what  the  deuce  is  that?'  His 
hands  were  occupied — he  could  not  get  at  his  eyeglass, ' ' 
said  Mrs.  Tollebranch,  ' '  and  so  he  peered  and  exclaimed, 
while  I  leaned  over  his  shoulder  and  glanced  into  the 
stewpot.  There,  floating  upon  the  surface  of  the  muttony, 
oniony,  carroty,  potatoey  mass,  was" — she  shuddered — 
"the  letter  Pontoise  had  given  me  with  my  candlestick 
on  the  preceding  night!" 

"My  dear,  how  awful!"  gasped  Lady  Millebrook. 

"I  had  had  it  in  my  pocket,"  explained  Mrs.  Tolle- 
branch, "when  I  arrived  at  the  golf -house.  When  I  be- 
gan to  stir  the  stew  I  found  the  handle  of  the  ladle  too 
hot  to  be  pleasant,  and  I  pulled  out  my  handkerchief  to 
wrap  round  it." 

"Whisking  Pontoise 's  effusion  out  with  it !  How  reck- 
less not  to  have  burned  it!"  cried  Lady  Millebrook. 

"Imagine  my  feelings!"  said  Clarice.  "There  was 
the  letter  in  the  stewpot.  As  the  contents  were  turned 
by  Cadminster  into  the  dish,  I  lost  sight  of  the  envelope 
beneath  a  greasy  avalanche  of  fat  mutton  and  vegetables. 
I  remembered  that  Pontoise  had  referred  to  that  un- 
lucky kiss ;  I  recalled  Willibrand 's  unfortunate  tendency 


A    DYSPEPTIC'S    TRAGEDY          117 

to  outbursts  of  jealous  rage  without  reason ;  I  shuddered 
at  the  thought  of  the  amount  of  reason  that  envelope 
contained.  Self-control  abandoned  me — my  brain  spun 
round,  I  thought  all  lost  .  .  .  and  then — I  caught  Cad- 
minster's  eye.  There  was  encouragement  in  it — and 
hope.  'Trust  to  me,'  it  said,  'I  will  save  you!'  ' 

"And ?" 

"We  sat  down  to  table,  and  that  stew  was  distributed, 
in  large  portions,  to  all  those  men.  Cadminster  as- 
sumed control  of  the  ladle.  He  gravely  asked  me  whether 
I  cared  about  stew,  and  I  gasped  out  something — what 
I  don't  know,  but  I  believe  I  said  I  didn't.  When  the 
words  were  out,  I  knew  that  I  had  lost  my  only  chance 
— that  Cadminster  had  intended  to  help  me  to  that  fatal 
envelope.  My  fate  hung  in  the  balance  as  he  filled  plate 
after  plate.  .  .  .  Who  would  get  my  letter  in  his  gravy, 
amongst  his  vegetables?  What  would  happen  then? 
Would  it  be  rendered  illegible  by  grease,  or  would  it  not  ? 
I  scarcely  breathed,  the  suspense  was  so  awful!"  said 
Mrs.  Tollebranch,  clutching  Lady  Millebrook's  sleeve. 
"And  then — Belief  came.  I  grasped  that  man's  heroic 
motive — I  understood  the  full  nobility  of  his  nature 
when ' ' 

"When  Cadminster  helped  himself  to  the  letter!  But, 
good  heavens!  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me,"  cried  Lady 
Millebrook,  "that  he  ate  it?" 

"He  did,  he  did!"  cried  Mrs.  Tollebranch,  throwing 
herself  into  her  friend's  sympathetic  embrace.  "Now 
you  know  why  I  call  him  a  Bayard,  and  look  upon  him 
as  my  truest,  noblest  friend.  Now  you  know.  ..." 

"Why  he  is  a  cadaverous  dyspeptic !  Of  course.  That 
document  must  have  completely  wrecked  his  constitu- 
tion." 

"It  has,"  interrupted  Clarice,,  with  a  little  shower  of 
tears. 

' '  I  shall  never  say  again, ' '  remarked  Lady  Millebrook, 


118          A    DYSPEPTIC'S    TRAGEDY 

as  she  took  an  affectionate  leave  of  her  dearest  friend 
but  four,  "that  Romance  and  Chivalry  have  no  existence 
in  these  modern  times.  To  jump  into  a  den  full  of  lions 
and  things  to  get  a  lady 's  bracelet  or  save  a  lady 's  glove 
may  sound  finer,  though  I  am  not  sure.  But  to  eat 
another  man's  love-letter,  envelope  and  all,  to  save  a 
woman's  reputation  .  .  .  there  is  the  true  ring  of  hero- 
ism about  it,  the  glow  that  ennobles  an  ordinary,  com- 
monplace action  into  something  superb.  And,  unless  I 
mistake,  Pontoise  invariably  penned  his  amatory  effu- 
sions upon  the  very  stiff est  of  parchment  wove.  .  .  .  Dar- 
ling, Lord  Cadminster  must  dine  with  us.  ...  Next 
Thursday ;  I  will  not  take  No ! "  ended  Lady  Millebrook ; 
"and  he  may  rely  upon  it  that  if  either  Jedbrook  or 
Mills  presume  to  offer  him  anything  rich  or  oleaginous, 
either  or  both  of  them  will  be  dismissed  next  day!" 


RENOVATION 

THE  hands  of  the  Dresden  clock  upon  the  white  tra- 
vertine mantelshelf  of  Lady  Sidonia's  boudoir  pointed 
to  the  small  hours.  There  was  a  discreet  knock  at  the 
door.  The  maid,  a  pale,  pretty  young  woman,  who  was 
wielding  the  hair-brush,  laid  the  weapon  down,  and  an- 
swered the  knock. 

"Who  is  it,  Pauline?"  asked  Pauline's  mistress,  with 
her  eyes  upon  the  mirror,  which  certainly  framed  a 
picture  well  worth  looking  at. 

' '  Her  Grace 's  maid,  my  lady,  asking  whether  you  are 
too  tired  for  a  chat?" 

"Say  that  I  shall  be  delighted,  and  give  me  the  blue 
Japanese  kimono  instead  of  this  pink  thing.  Will  my 
hair  do?  Because,  if  it  needs  no  more  brushing,  you 
can  go  to  bed." 

"Thank  you,  my  lady." 

The  door  opened;  trailing  silks  swept  over  the  car- 
pet. .  .  . 

"I  can't  kiss  you  through  all  this  brown-gold  silk," 
said  the  Duchess's  voice.  "Stop,  though!  You  shall 
have  it  on  the  top  of  your  head."  And  the  kiss  de- 
scended, light  as  a  puff  of  thistle-down.  "I  kiss  Cull 
there  sometimes,  when  I  want  him  to  be  in  a  good  tem- 
per. He  says  it  thrills  right  down  to  the  tips  of  his 
toes.  .  .  .  You  're  smiling !  I  guess  you  think  the  stock 
of  thrills  ought  to  be  exhausted  by  this  time — three  years 
since  we  stood  up  together  on  the  deck  of  Cluny  F. 
Farradaile  's  anchored  airship,  a  posse  of  detectives  from 
Blueberry  Street  guarding  the  ends  of  the  fore  and  aft 

119 


120  RENOVATION 

cables,  where  they  were  anchored  three  hundred  feet 
below  in  the  grounds  of  the  N'York  JEther  Club,  just 
to  prevent  any  one  of  the  dozens  of  Society  girls  who'd 
tried  their  level  best  to  catch  Cull  and  failed,  from 
coming  along  with  a  bowie  and  cutting  'em.  .  .  .  You 
remember  the  pars,  in  all  the  papers,  headed,  'A  Mar- 
riage Made  in  Heaven, '  I  guess  ? ' ' 

' '  Of  course,  of  course, ' '  said  the  Duchess 's  hostess  and 
dearest  friend. 

' '  My  invention, ' '  said  her  Grace,  ' '  and  mighty  smart, 
I  reckon.  I  'd  always  said  I  'd  be  married  in  a  real  orig- 
inal way — and  I  was.  The  only  drawback  to  the  affair 
was  that  she  pitched — I  mean  the  airship — and  the  Min- 
ister, and  Cull,  and  Poppa,  and  the  inventor — that's 
Cluny  F.  Farradaile — were  taken  poorly  before  the  close 
of  the  cer  'mony.  As  for  my  sex,  I  'm  proud  to  say  that 
Amurrican  women  can  rise  superior  even  to  air-sickness 
when  Paris  frocks  are  in  question.  But  when  they 
wound  us  down  we  were  glad  enough  to  get  back  to  dry 
land.  "We  found  a  representative  of  the  Customs  wait- 
ing for  us,  by  the  way;  and  if  Poppa  hadn't  gone  to 
law  about  it,  and  proved  that  we  were  really  fixed  on  to 
the  States  by  our  cables,  we'd  have  had  to  plank  down' 
the  duty  on  every  jewel  we'd  got  on.  Say,  pet,  I'm 
perishing  for  a  smoke!" 

The  Duchess  was  supplied  with  cigarettes.  Pauline 
placed  upon  a  little  table  the  materials  that  ' '  f actorize, ' ' 
as  the  Duchess  would  have  said,  towards  the  composi- 
tion of  cognac  and  soda,  and  glided  out. 

"Now  I  call  that  a  real  pretty,  meek-looking  crea- 
ture," said  her  Grace,  blowing  a  little  flight  of  smoke 
rings  in  the  direction  of  the  door.  ' '  If  she 's  as  clever  as 
she's  nice,  Siddie,  you've  got  a  treasure!" 

"She  is  a  good  maid,"  responded  Lady  Sidonia.  "For 
one  thing,  she  knows  a  great  deal  about  the  toilette,  and 
on  the  subject  of  the  complexion  she's  really  quite  an 


RENOVATION 

authority.  She  knows  something  of  massage,  too — on  the 
American  system — for,  though  an  English  girl,  she  has 
lived  in  your  country " 

"Oh!"  said  the  Duchess,  with  an  accent  of  interest. 
"Has  she,  indeed?" 

' '  She 's  reasonable,  too, ' '  went  on  the  maid 's  mistress ; 
' '  and  not  a  limpet  in  the  way  of  sticking  to  one  mode  of 
doing  the  hair  and  refusing  to  learn  any  other.  Then 
she  can  wave " 

"It  is  an  accomplishment, ' '  said  the  Duchess  thought- 
fully. "Now,  my  woman  either  frizzes  you  like  a  Fiji, 
or  leaves  you  dank  and  straight  like  a  mermaid.  Why 
does  hair  never  wave  naturally — out  of  a  novel?  It's  a 
question  for  a  Convention.  And  men — dear  idiots ! — are 
such  believers  in  the  reality  of  ripples.  There!  I've 
been  implored  over  and  over  again  for  'just  that  little 
bit  with  the  wave  in  it'  to  keep  in  a  locket — hundreds 
and  hundreds  of  times.  I  guess  Cull's  wiser  now;  but 
once  you've  seen  your  husband's  teeth  in  a  tumbler, 
you've  entered  into  a  Conjugal  Reciprocity  Convention: 
'Believe  in  me — not  as  much  of  me  as  really  belongs  to 
me,  but  as  much  as  you  see — and  I  '11  return  the  compli- 
ment!' Yes,  I  guess  I'll  take  some  S.  and  B.  It's  an 
English  accomplishment,  and  I've  mastered  it  thor- 
oughly. We  Amurricans  rinse  out  with  Apollinaris  or 
ice-water,  which  isn't  half  so  comforting,  especially  in 
trouble." 

And  the  Duchess  heaved  a  butterfly's  sigh,  which 
scarcely  stirred  her  filmy  laces,  and  smoothed  her  pret- 
tiest eyebrow  with  one  exquisite  finger-tip. 

"Trouble!"  exclaimed  her  friend.  "My  dear,  you're 
the  happiest  of  women.  Don't  try  to  persuade  me  that 
you've  got  a  silent  sorrow!" 

"Not  exactly  a  silent  one,  because  I'm  going  to  con- 
fide in  you ;  but  still  it  is  a  sorrow. ' '  The  Duchess  con- 
fided one  hand  to  her  dearest  friend's  consoling  clasp, 


122  RENOVATION 

and  wiped  away  a  tear  with  a  minute  handkerchief  that 
would  not  have  dried  half  a  dozen.  "Perhaps  Amurri- 
can  blood  is  warmer  than  English;  but,  anyhow,  our 
family  affections  are  vurry  much  more  strongly  developed 
over  in  the  States  than  yours  are  here.  And  I  had  a  let- 
ter from  Momma  by  yesterday's  mail  that  would  have 
melted  a  heart  of  rock."  She  dried  a  second  tear.  "If 
Momma  lives  till  the  end  of  Creation,"  she  said,  "she 
will  never,  never  get  over  it.  And  I  don't  wonder!" 

"Darling.,  if  it  would  really  do  you  any  good  to  tell 
me "  breathed  Lady  Sidonia. 

"I  tell  all  my  friends,"  said  the  Duchess  with  a  sigh; 
"and  they're  invariably  of  one  opinion — that  Momma 
was  cruelly  victimized." 

"She  is " 

"Call  her  forty,  dear.  It  would  be  just  cruel  to  say 
anything  more.  People  call  me  lovely  and  all  those 
things,"  said  the  Duchess  candidly,  "and  I  allow  they're 
correct.  Well,  compared  with  what  Momma  was  at  my 
age,  I'm  real  ordinary." 

"Oh!" 

"Frozen  fact !  And  you  can  grasp  the  idea  that  when 
— in  spite  of  every  effort — Momma  began  to  lose  her  fig- 
ure and  her  looks,  she  felt  it ! " 

"Every  woman  must!" 

"But  the  more  she  felt  it,  the  more  she  seemed  to 
expand.  .  .  .  Grief  runs  to  fat,  I  do  believe,"  said  the 
Duchess.  "Of  course,  Poppa's  allowance  to  Momma  be- 
ing liber  1 — even  for  a  Corn  King — she  had  unlimited 
funds  at  her  disposal.  To  begin  with,  she  rented  a  med- 
ical specialist." 

"Who  dieted  her?" 

"My  dear,  for  a  woman  accustomed  to  French  cook- 
ery, and  with  the  national  predilection  for  cookies  and 
candy,  it  must  have  been " 

"Torture!" 


RENOVATION  123 

"One  gluten  biscuit  and  the  eye  of  a  mutton  cutlet 
for  dinner.  Think  of  it!  Beef-juice  and  dry  toast  for 
breakfast,  ditto  for  supper.  And  she  used  to  skip — a 
woman  of  that  size,  too — for  hours!  And  her  trainers 
came  eTery  morning  at  five  o'clock,  and  they'd  maty  her 
just  put  on  a  sweater  and  take  her  between  them  for  a 
sharp  trot  round  Central  Park,  just  as  if  she'd  been  a 
gentleman  jockey  sworn  to  ride  at  so  many  stone  for  a 
Plate.  And  the  number  of  stone  Momma  got  off " 

"She  got  them  off!" 

"I  guess  she  got  them  off,  "said  the  Duchess.  "Poppa 
talked  of  having  an  elegant  tombstone  set  up  in  Central 
Park  to  commemorate  the  greater  portion  of  a  wife 
buried  there!  then  he  gave  up  the  notion.  And  then 
Momma  made  handsome  presents  to  her  specialist  and 
her  trainers,  and  contracted  with  the  cleverest  operator 
in  NTork  to  make  a  face." 

"To  make  a  face!"  repeated  Lady  Sidonia. 

"To  make  a  face  for  Momma  that  matched  her  youth- 
ful figure,"  said  the  Duchess  composedly.  "My!  the 
time  that  man  took  in  creating  a  surface  to  work  on! 
She  slept  for  a  fortnight  with  her  countenance  covered 
with  slices  of  raw  veaL" 

"Horrible!"  shuddered  the  listener. 

"And  the  mnmnnrinc  and  steaming  that  went  on!" 

"I  can  imagine!" 

"The  foundations  being  properly  laid "  continued 

the  Duchess,  lighting  another  cigarette. 

Lady  Sidonia  went  into  a  little  uncontrollable  shriek 
of  laughter.  "As  though  .  .  .  she  had  been  a  house! 
.  .  .  Ha,  ha,  ha!" 

"My  dear,"  returned  the  Duchess,,  shaking  her  beauti- 
ful head,  "the  terms  employed  in  the  contract  were  pre- 
cisely those  I  have  quoted.  .  .  .  The  specialist  laid  the 
foundations,  and  carried  the  contract  out.  Momma's 
appearance  delighted  everyone,  except  Poppa,  who  has 


RENOVATION 

old-fashioned  notions,  and  complained  of  feeling  shy  in 
the  presence  of  a  stranger.  Fortunately  their  Silver 
Wedding  eventuated  just  then,  and  his  conscience — 
Poppa's  conscience  is,  for  a  corn  speculator's,  wonder- 
fully sensitive — ceased  to  annoy  him. ' ' 

"And  your  mother?" 

"Momma  wore  her  new  face  for  six  months  with  the 
greatest  satisfaction, ' '  said  the  Duchess.  ' '  Of  course,  she 
had  to  lay  up  for  repairs  pretty  often,  but  the  specialist 
was  there  to  carry  them  out.  Unluckily,  he  contracted  a 
severe  chill  in  the  N'York  winter  season  and  died.  His 
wife  put  his  tools  and  enamels  and  things  in  his  coffin. 
She  said  she  knew  business  would  be  brisk  when  he  got 
up  again,  and  she  didn't  wish  any  other  speculator  to 
chip  in  before  him. "  The  Duchess  sighed.  "Then  came 
Momma's  great  trouble." 

"There  was  no  other  operator  to — take  up  the — the 
contract?"  hinted  Lady  Sidonia. 

' '  There  were  dozens, ' '  said  the  Duchess,  ' '  and  Momma 
tried  them  all.  My  dear,  you  may  surmise  what  she 
looked  like." 

"A  heterogeneous  mingling  of  styles." 

"It  was  impossible  to  conjecture,"  said  the  Duchess 
confidentially,  ' '  to  what  period  the  original  structure  be- 
longed. By  day  Momma  resorted  to  a  hat  and  voile." 

"  Even  in  the  house  ?" 

"Even  in  the  house.  By  night — well,  I  guess  you've 
noticed  that  a  human  work  of  art,  illuminated  by  electric 
light,  isn  't  seen  under  the  most  favorable  conditions. ' ' 

"There  is  a  pitiless  accuracy!" 

"An  unmerciful  candor  about  its  revelations.  After 
one  unusually  brilliant  reception,  Momma  retired  from 
society  and  took  to  spiritualism.  She  persevered  until 
she  had  materialized  that  demised  face-specialist,  and  ex- 
tracted some  definite  raps  in  the  way  of  advice. ' ' 

"And  what  did  he  advise?" 


RENOVATION  125 

"He  suggested,  through  the  medium,  that  Momma 
should  apply  to  the  Milwaukee  Mentalists. " 

"A  Society  of  Faith  Healers?" 

' '  '  Occult  Operatists, '  they  call  themselves  on  the  pros- 
pectuses. As  for  the  cult  of  the  Society,"  said  the 
Duchess  pensively,  "one  might  call  it  a  mayonnaise  of 
Freemasonry,  Theosophy,  Hypnotism,  Humbug,  and 
Hoodoo.  But  the  humbug,  like  salad  oil  in  the  mayon- 
naise, was  the  chief  ingredient."  The  Duchess  stopped 
to  draw  breath. 

' '  And  into  this  vortex  Mrs.  Van  Wacken  w.as  drawn  ? ' ' 
sighed  Lady  Sidonia. 

' '  Sucked  down  and  swallowed, ' '  said  the  Duchess,  who 
had  been  Miss  Van  Wacken.  ' '  They  undertook  to  make 
Momma  right  over  again,  brand  new,  by  prayer  and  faith 
and — a  mentally  electrified  bath.  For  which  treatment 
Momma  was  to  pay  ten  thousand  down." 

' '  Pounds ! ' '  shrieked  the  horrified  Lady  Sidonia. 

"Dollars,"  corrected  the  Duchess. 

"In  advance?"  cried  the  listener. 

"In  advance,  after  a  demonstration  had  been  given 
which  was  practically  to  satisfy  Momma  that  the  Mil- 
waukee Mentalists  were  square, ' '  said  the  Duchess.  ' '  My 
word !  when  I  remember  how  they  bluffed  that  poor  dar- 
ling— I  should  want  to  laugh,  if  I  didn't  cry."  She 
dried  another  tear. 

"Do  go  on ! "  entreated  her  friend. 

' '  The  High  Priestess  of  the  Community  was  a  woman, ' ' 
went  on  the  Duchess,  "just  as  cool  and  ca'am  and  cun- 
ning as  they  make  'em." 

' '  I  guessed  as  much, ' '  said  Lady  Sidonia. 

"It  takes  a  woman  to  know  and  work  on  another 
woman's  weak  points,"  rejoined  the  Duchess.  "The 
High  Priestess  pretended  to  be  in  communication  with  a 
spirit.  '  The  Mystikos, '  they  called  him,  and  he  resided, 
when  he  was  at  home,  in  a  crystal  ball ;  but  bullion  was 


126  RENOVATION 

the  real  totem  of  the  tribe.  Well — but  it's  getting 
late " 

' '  I  shall  not  sleep  a  wink  until  I  have  heard  the  whole 
story,"  said  Lady  Sidonia. 

"And  Cull  and  your  husband  are  comparing  notes 
about  their  wives  in  the  smoking-room,"  said  the 
Duchess. 

"Well,  the  Theologa " 

"The— the— what?" 

"The  Theologa — that  was  the  professional  title  of  the 
High  Priestess — whose  or  'nary  name  was  Mrs.  Gideon  J. 
Swale,"  her  Grace  went  on,  "talked  a  great  deal  to 
Momma,  and  made  some  passes  over  her,  and  got  the 
poor  dear  completely  under  her  thumb.  Momma  wasn't 
the  only  victim,  you  must  know.  There  were  four  other 
ladies,  all  wealthy,  and  each  one,  like  Momma,  the  leader 
of  a  fashionable  society  set " 

' '  And — no  longer  young  ? ' ' 

"And  past  their  first  bloom,"  amended  the  Duchess. 
"And  each  of  'em  had  agreed  to  plank  down  the  same 
sum  in  cold  dollars." 

"Fifty  thousand  in  all,"  said  Lady  Sidonia  with  a 
sigh.  She  could  have  done  so  much  with  fifty  thousand 
dollars,  even  though  American  money  was  such  beastly 
stuff.  "Worth " 

"Worth  riskin'  a  term  in  a  N'York  State  prison  for — 
I  guess  so ! "  said  the  Duchess.  ' '  Well,  Momma  and  the 
other  ladies  signed  on  to  the  terms,  and  went  through 
a  cer'mony  of  purification — which  included  learnin'  a 
kind  of  catechism  used  in  admittin'  a  new  member  into 
the  Occult  Operatists'  Community — an'  several  hymns. 
That  was  to  make  them  worthy  to  receive  the  Eevela- 
tion  from  the  Mystikos,  I  guess.  At  least,  the  Theo- 
loga  " 

"Mrs.  Gideon  J.  Swale?" 

"The  same.    The  Theologa  said  so.    In  a  week  or  so — 


RENOVATION  127 

durin '  which  period  they  lived  at  the  house  of  the  Com- 
munity— chiefly  on  nuts  an'  spring- water " 

"For  which  entertainment  they  paid "  Lady  Sido- 

nia  hinted. 

"Delmonico  rates!"  said  the  Duchess.  "Well,  it  was 
settled  that  the  Demonstration  was  to  come  off,  with  the 
Mystikos '  consent. ' ' 

"What  sort  of " 

"Demonstration?  Cur 'us,"  said  the  Duchess,  "and 
interesting.  There  was  a  woman — a  Mrs.  Gower,  Eng- 
lish by  birth,  Amurrican  naturalized — who  was  to  be  the 
Subject.  She  was  a  widow — her  husband  having  met  his 
death  in  an  explosion  at  an  oil-gas  producin'  factory.' 
Stoker  to  the  gas-generator  he  was,  and  his  wife  had 
brought  him  his  dinner — fried  steak  in  a  tin  pail — when 
the  hull  kitboodle  blew  up.  Husband  was  killed — wife 
was  saved,  though  so  scarred  and  disfigured  about  the 
face  as  to  be  changed  from  a  pretty  woman  into  a  plain 
one." 

"And  she — this  scarred,  disfigured  woman — was  to  be 
made  pretty  again  by  the  Occult  Operatists?"  hazarded 
Lady  Sidonia. 

"Guessed  it  first  time,"  nodded  the  Duchess.  "The 
cer'mony  took  place  in  a  temple  belonging  to  the  Com- 
munity, all  painted  over  red  and  yellow  triangles  and 
things  like  T-squares.  At  the  upper  end  was  an  altar, 
raised  on  three  steps,  and  on  this  was  the  ground  glass 
ball  in  which  the  Mystikos  lived  when  he  wasn't  some- 
where else,  and  an  electric  light  was  fixed  over  it,  so 
that  it  just  dazzled  your  eyes  to  look  at.  Below  the 
altar  was  a  seat  for  the  Theologa,  and,  you  bet, 
Mrs.  Gideon  J.  Swale  came  out  strong  in  the  cos- 
tume line.  Momma  was  reminded  of  Titiens  in  Norma, 
she  said." 

"I  want  to  hear  about  the  Demonstration,"  pleaded 
Lady  Sidonia  plaintively. 


128  RENOVATION 

"My!  you're  in  a  hurry,"  said  the  Duchess.  "But 
it  was  to  be  brought  off  in  a  bath — if  you  must  know ! ' ' 

"A  bath?" 

"A  bath  that  was  full  of  water  and  boiled  herbs,  and 
had  been  properly  incanted  over  by  the  Theologa,"  ex- 
plained the  Duchess.  "There  were  incense-burners  all 
round,  and  not  far  off  a  kind  of  tent  of  white  linen,  all 
over  red  triangles  and  T's.  And  the  five  candidates  for 
renovation — I  mean  Momma  and  the  other  ladies — sat 
on  a  form,  in  bloomers,  each  with  a  little  purse-bag  con- 
taining bills  for  ten  thousand  dollars,  and  her  heart  full 
of  hope  and  joy." 

"Oh!  go  on,"  cried  Lady  Sidonia. 

' '  The  temple  was  circular,  something  like  the  Mormon 
Tabernacle  at  Salt  Lake  City,"  said  the  Duchess,  "and 
the  Occult  Operatives — a  round  hundred  of  'em — occu- 
pied the  forms,  to  assist  with  the  prayers  and  hymn- 
singin'.  Of  course,  the  proceedings  began  with  a  hymn 
sung  in  several  different  keys.  I  surmise  the  effect  was 
impressive. ' ' 

Lady  Sidonia  elevated  her  eyebrows. 

"Momma  said  it  was  wailful,  and  made  her  feel  as 
though  live  clams  were  crawling  up  and  down  her  back. 
But  then  the  bloomers  may  account  for  that,"  said  the 
Duchess,  "and  I  guess  the  temple  registers  were  out  of 
order.  Then — the  lights  were  suddenly  turned  out!" 

"0-oh!"  shivered  Lady  Sidonia. 

"Except  the  electric  stars  over  the  Mystikos'  crystal 
ball, ' '  went  on  the  Duchess,  ' '  so  that  all  the  light  in  the 
temple  seemed  to  come  from  the  altar.  Momma  said  that 
made  her  feel  those  crawling  clams  worse  than  ever." 

"Could  one  see  plainly  what  was  going  on?"  asked 
Lady  Sidonia. 

"It  was  a  religious  kind  of  dimness,"  said  the  Duch- 
ess, ' '  but  most  everything  showed  plainly.  For  instance, 
when  the  hideous  woman  who  was  to  be  the  Subject  of 


RENOVATION  129 

the  Demonstration  came  out  of  the  linen  tent  in  a  suit 
of  bloomers  like  Momma's  and  the  others,  she  appeared 
to  be  plain  enough.  Do  you  keep  a  cat,  dear?"  whis- 
pered the  Duchess. 

"Why?    No !"  said  Lady  Sidonia. 

"I  thought  I  heard  a  scratching  at  the  door,"  ex- 
plained the  Duchess,  with  her  mouth  close  to  Lady  Si- 
donia's  ear.  "Don't  open  it.  ...  I'd  rather 

Where  was  I?" 

"The  Subject  was  in  bloomers/'  said  Lady  Sidonia. 

"Oh,  well!  Momma  and  the  other  ladies  were  asked 
to  look  at  her  earnestly,  to  fix  her  features  in  their 
minds,  so  that  they  couldn't  but  recognize  her  again  if 
they  saw  her.  She  was  a  slight  woman,  Momma  said, 
about  thirty-five,  and  but  for  her  scarred  face  would 
have  been  pretty,  with  her  pale  complexion,  brown  wavy 
hair,  and  large  gray  eyes  with  black  lashes.  .  .  .  She 
had  one  peculiarity  about  the  left  hand,  which  EO  one 
who  ever  saw  it  could  forget.  What  are  you  listening 
for?" 

"/  hear  something  at  the  door,"  faltered  Lady  Si- 
donia in  a  nervous  undertone. 

"Fancy.  You  don't  keep  a  cat.  Well,  the  Subject 
went  up  to  the  altar  and  knelt,  and  the  Theologa — Mrs. 
Gideon  J.  Swale — invoked  the  Mystikos  in  a  solemn  kind 
of  conjuration,  and  the  crystal  ball  on  the  altar  began 
to  hop  up  and  down." 

"No!" 

"Fact!  Then  it  rose  right  off  the  altar  and  hung  sus- 
pended in  the  air,  and  the  hymn  broke  out  worse  than 
ever,  and  the  Theologa  led  the  Subject  down  the  altar 
steps  and  put  her  into  the  bath." 

"Well?"  gasped  Lady  Sidonia. 

"The  Theologa  threw  incense  on  the  burners  round 
the  bath,  and  perfect  clouds  rose  up  all  round  it,  com- 
pletely hiding  the  Subject,"  explained  the  Duchess. 


130  RENOVATION 

''Then  she " 

' '  She  began  to  scream. ' ' 

"To  scream?" 

"As  if  she  was  in  absolute  agony;  and  Momma  and 
the  four  other  ladies  nearly  fainted  off  their  form,  they 
were  so  perfectly  terrified. ' ' 

' '  And — what  happened  ? ' ' 

"There  was  a  scream  more  piercing  than  any  of  the 
others. ' ' 

"Oh!" 

"The  clouds  of  incense  became  so  thick  that  you 
couldn't  see  your  hand." 

"And " 

' '  The  Occult  Operatives  sang  more  loudly  and  less  in 
tune  than  ever,  and  the  crystal  ball  kept  on  jumping  up 
and  down.  Then  the  clouds  of  smoke  cleared  away,  and 

the  lights  went  up,  and "  The  Duchess  paused  pro- 

vokingly. 

"Go  on,  goon!" 

"And  the  Subject  got  out  of  the  bath.  .  .  .  And  she 
had  been  ugly  and  scarred  when  she  went  in,  but  now 
she  was  young  and  pretty!" 

"Impossible!" 

"It  was  the  same  woman  to  all  appearances,  but 
changed — wonderfully  changed.  The  same  pretty 
brown  hair,  the  same  eyes,  gray,  with  long  curly  black 
lashes,  and  the  same  strange  malformation  of  one  finger 
of  the  left  hand.  But  no  cicatrices,  none  of  the  seams 
and  marks  that  made  the  other  frightful. ' ' 

"The  other!" 

"Did  I  say  the  other?" 

"Certainly!" 

' '  Then  I  guess  I  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag. ' ' 

' '  Ah,  I  begin  to  understand ! ' ' 

"I  thought  you'd  tumble." 

' '  There  were  two  women — exactly  alike ! ' ' 


RENOVATION  131 

"No,  goosey !  One  woman  younger  than  the  other,  and 
looking  exactly  like  her,  as  she  looked  before  the  injury 
to  her  face." 

"Sisters?" 

1 '  No.    Mother  and  daughter. ' ' 

"And  the  change  in  the  bath?" 

"Managed  with  a  false  bottom  and  trap  exit.  The 
sort  of  trick  one  sees  exposed  at  the  Egyptian  Hall. ' ' 

' '  And  the  daughter  took  the  mother 's  place  ? ' ' 

"Under  cover  of  the  incense — and  the  singing.  The 
tent  held  two,  you  understand." 

"But  Mrs.  Van  Wacken?" 

"Momma  and  the  other  ladies — once  the  thing  had 
been  proved  genuine — were  only  too  anxious  to  plank 
down  their  money  and  hop  into  the  wonderful  bath.  So 
they  went  up  to  the  Theologa,  and  she  blessed  them  and 
laid  the  five  money-bags  on  the  altar,  and  then " 

"Then " 

' '  Then  all  the  lights  went  out, ' '  said  the  Duchess,  ' '  and 
there  was  a  kind  of  stampede,  and  Momma  and  the  four 
other  ladies  found  themselves  alone  in  the  temple.  The 
Theologa  and  the  Subject  and  the  hundred  members  of 
the  Community  who  'd  sat  round  on  the  seats  and  helped 
with  the  hymns  were  gone — and  the  dollar  bags  had  van- 
ished. The  doors  of  the  temple  were  locked,  and  Momma 
and  the  four  other  victims  had  to  stop  there  until  the 
morning.  An  express  man  heard  their  cries  for  help, 
broke  in  the  door,  and  took  them  to  an  hotel  in  his  wagon. 
Dear,  I  'm  going  to  toddle  to  by-by ! ' ' 

' '  It  was  an  awful — awful  swindle, ' '  said  Lady  Sidonia, 
as  she  and  the  Duchess  kissed  good-night. 

"And  the  exposure!"  The  Duchess  shrugged  her 
shoulders.  "Momma  and  the  other  ladies  wanted  it 
hushed,  but  the  police  went  into  the  matter." 

"Were  the  swindlers  arrested?" 

"The  Theologa  was  caught  at  Amsterdam,  and  extra- 


132  RENOVATION 

dited.  The  Community  got  off.  Nobody  could  prove  any 
of  them  had  had  any  of  the  money.  I  guess,"  said  the 
Duchess,  yawning,  "Mrs.  Gideon  J.  Swale  knows  where 
it  is.  But  she's  in  prison,  now,  dear.  And  I  hope  she 
likes  it.  As  for  the  woman  and  her  daughter,  whose  like- 
nesses to  each  other  had  been  made  use  of  by  Mrs. 
Gideon — they're  still  at  large.  Good-night." 

"Do  tell  me,"  pressed  Lady  Sidonia.  ''That  pecu- 
liarity of  one  finger  of  the  left  hand  possessed  by  both 
mother  and  daughter — what  was  it  ? " 

' '  It  was, ' '  said  the  Duchess,  ' '  a  double  nail. ' ' 

"How  odd!"  said  Lady  Sidonia.  "My  maid  has  the 
same  queer  deformity,  and  it  is  the  only  thing  I  don't 
like  about  her.  .  .  .  She  hates  to  have  it  noticed. ' ' 

"I  guess  she  does,"  said  the  Duchess. 

"Look  at  her  hand  to-morrow,"  said  Lady  Sidonia. 
"It's  awfully  queer.  Don't  forget." 

' '  I  won 't, ' '  said  the  Duchess.  ' '  But  she  won 't  be  here 
to-morrow ! ' ' 

Lady  Sidonia 's  eyes  opened  to  their  widest  extent. 
"Won't— be  here?" 

' '  No.    She  is  the  girl  who  got  out  of  the  bath ! ' ' 

' '  Good  heavens ! ' '  cried  Lady  Sidonia.  ' '  How  do  you 
Are  you " 

"I  had  been  shown  her  photograph  by  the  police — 
recognized  her  the  moment  I  saw  her, ' '  said  the  Duchess. 
"I'm  not  mistaken  any,  you  may  be  sure.  But  you 
needn  't  trouble  about  her.  She 's  gone ! ' ' 

"Gone!" 

"She  was  listening  at  the  door,  and  heard  the  whole 
story.  When  you  spoke  about  the  cat,  she  made  tracks. 
She 's  clear  of  this  house  by  now,  you  may  bet  your  back 
teeth.  Don't  worry  about  her,"  said  the  Duchess.  "I'll 
send  my  own  maid  to  you  in  the  morning.  Good-night ! ' ' 


THE  BREAKING  PLACE 

Being  a  letter  from  Miss  Tossie  Trilbina,  of  No.  000, 
Giddingham  Mansions,  W.,  to  the  Editor  of  "The 
Keyhole,"  an  illustrated  Weekly  Journal  of  Cater- 
ings for  the  Curious. 

DEAR  SIR, 

Since  reserve  and  reticence  can  be  carried  too  far  by 
a  lady,  I  drop  the  present  line  of  explanation,  the  news- 
papers having  took  so  kind  a  interest  in  the  differences 
between  me  and  Lord  Wretchingham.  And  if  poets  ask 
what 's  in  a  name,  the  experience  of  me  and  many  another 
young  lady  whose  talent  for  the  Stage,  developed  by  ap- 
plication and  go-aheadness,  not  to  say  good  luck — for 
that  there  is  such  a  thing  must  be  plain  to  the  stub- 
bornest  person — has  made  her  friends  from  the  Orches- 
tra— (you'd  never  guess  how  the  Second  Violin  can 
queer  you  in  an  accomp.  if  you  hadn't  experienced  it!) 
— to  the  highest  row  in  the  Threepenny  Gallery  at  The 
Druids,  or  the  shilling  one  at  The  Troc. — would  answer, 
more  than  people  think  for! 

My  poor  dear  mother,  who  has  been  pretty  nearly 
crazy  about  the  affair,  in  that  shrinking  from  publicity 
which  is  natural  to  a  lady,  told  the  young  gentleman 
from  The  Keyhole,  who  dropped  in  on  her  at  her  little 
place  at  Brixton,  to  fish  and  find  out  for  himself  why 
the  marriage-engagement  between  her  daughter  and  his 
lordship  should  have  been  broken  off  on  the  very  verge 
of  the  altar. 

Of  course,  I  don't  assume  his  lordship's  proposal 

133 


134  THE    BREAKING    PLACE 

wasn  't  a  compliment  to  a  young  lady  in  the  Profession ; 
but  lordly  roofs  and  music  halls  may  cover  vice  or  shelter 
virtue,  as  one  of  the  serio  characters  so  beautifully  said 
in  the  autumn  show  at  dear  old  Drury  Lane,  the  name 
of  which  has  slipped  me.  And  I  don't  pretend  that 
my  deepest  and  holiest  feelings  were  not  wrenched  a  bit 
by  me  having  to  say  in  two  words,  after  mutual  vows 
and  presents  of  the  solemnest  kind  had  been  exchanged 
between  me  and  Lord  Wretchingham :  "All  is  over 
between  you  and  me  for  ever,  Hildebrand;  and  if  you 
possess  the  mind  as  well  as  the  manners  and  appearance 
of  a  gentleman,  you  will  not  force  me  to  give  you  the 
definite  chuck." 

He  went  on  awfully,  grinding  the  heels  of  his  boots 
into  a  brand-new  Wilton  carpet,  and  telling  me  over  and 
over  that  I  had  no  heart  and  never  loved  him,  concern- 
ing which  I  prefer  to  keep  myself  to  myself.  There 
are  those  that  make  as  much  noise  when  things  go  wrong 
with  'em  as  a  one-and-fourpenny  sparking-plug,  and 
there  are  others  that  keep  theirselves  to  theirselves  and 
suffer  in  silence,  of  which  I  hope  I  am  one.  Even  sup- 
posing my  ancestry  did  not  toddle  over  with  Edward  the 
Conkeror,  which  they  may,  for  all  I  know. 

It  was  on  the  very  first  night  of  the  production  of  The 
Pop-in-Taw  Girl,  by  the  Trust  or  Bust  Theatrical  Syn- 
dicate, at  the  Hiram  P.  Goff  Theatre,  W.,  that  Lord 
Wretchingham  caught  my  eye.  Musical  Comedy  is  my 
strongest  weakness,  for  though  a  principal  boy's  part, 
with  heaps  of  changes,  and  electro-calcium  with  chro- 
matic glasses  for  every  song  and  dance  touches  the 
spot,  pantomime  is  not  so  refined.  Perhaps  you  may  re- 
call the  record  hits  I  made  in  ' '  Freddy 's  Flannel  Waist- 
coat Wilted  in  the  Wash, ' '  and  ' '  Lay  Your  Head  on  My 
Shoulder,  Dear."  Not  that  it's  my  habit  to  refer  to  my 
successes,  but  the  street  organs  alone  will  rub  it  in  when 
you  happen  to  be  the  idol  of  the  hour. 


THE    BREAKING    PLACE  135 

He  sat  with  his  mouth  wide  open — of  course,  I  refer  to 
Lord  Wretchingham — all  the  time  yours  truly  was  on 
the  stage,  and  I  will  say  no  gentleman  could  have  a  more 
delicate  regard  for  a  young  lady's  feelings  than  his 
lordship  did  in  sending  a  perfect  haystack  of  the  most 
expensive  hothouse  flowers  addressed  to  Miss  Tossie  Tril- 
hina,  with  a  diamond  and  turquoise  muffchain  twined 
round  the  moss  handle  of  the  basket,  and  not  a  speck  of 
address  on  the  card  for  my  poor  dear  mother  to  return 
the  jewelry  to,  her  being  over  and  above  particular,  I 
have  often  thought,  in  discouraging  attentions  that  only 
sprang  from  gentlemen's  appreciation  of  the  perform- 
ance, and  masked  nothing  the  smallest  objections  could 
be  taken  to. 

She  quite  warmed  to  Lord  "Wretchingham,  I  will  say, 
when  him  being  respectfully  presented  by  the  Syndicate, 
and  me  being  recommended  fresh  country  air  by  the 
doctors  when  suffering  from  tonsils  in  the  throat,  his 
lordship  placed  his  motor-car  at  my  disposal.  With 
poor  dear  mother  invariably  in  the  glass  compartment 
behind,  the  tongue  of  scandal  could  not  possibly  find 
a  handle,  and  her  astonishment  when  she  discovered 
that  Hildebrand  regarded  me  with  a  warmer  feel- 
ing than  that  of  mere  admiration  gave  her  quite  a  turn. 

We  were  formally  engaged — me  and  Lord  Wretch- 
ingham. We  kept  the  thing  so  dark  I  cannot  think  how 
the  newspapers  managed  to  get  hold  of  it.  But  a  public 
favorite  must  pay  the  price  of  popularity  in  having  her 
private  affairs  discussed  by  the  crowd.  My  poor  dear 
mother  felt  it,  but  there!  what  can  you  do?  With  in- 
terviewers calling  same  time  as  the  milk,  and  Press 
snap-shotters  lurking  behind  the  laurel  bushes  in  the 
front  garden,  is  it  to  be  wondered  at  that  Hildebrand 's 
family  were  apprised  of  our  betrothal  not  only  by  pars., 
but  by  the  publication  of  our  photographs,  taken  hand- 
in-hand  on  my  poor  dear  mother's  doorstep,  with  a  vine 


136  THE    BREAKING    PLACE 

climbing  up  behind  us,  Hildebrand's  motor  car,  an  18.26 
h.  p.  "Gadabout,"  at  the  bottom  of  the  doorsteps,  with 
the  French  chofore  parley-vousing  away  a  good  one  to 
the  three  Japanese  pugs,  and  poor  dear  mother,  looking 
a  perfect  lady,  at  her  fancy-work,  in  the  front  parlor 
window.  How  the  negative  was  obtained,  and  how  it 
found  its  way  into  all  the  Illustrated  Papers,  and  par- 
ticularly how  it  got  upon  the  postcards,  I  don't  pretend 
to  guess.  It's  one  of  those  regular  mysteries  you  come 
across  in  real  life. 

Hildebrand,  or,  possibly,  as  all  is  over,  I  should  say 
Lord  Wretchingham  's  family,  went  into  perfect  fits  when 
the  news  of  our  betrothal  leaked  out.  The  Earl  of 
Blandish,  his  father,  raged  like  a  mad  bull;  and  the 
Countess,  his  mother,  implored  him  on  her  knees  to  break 
the  engagement. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  "my  own 
boy,"  she  said,  "do  not,  I  beg  of  you,"  she  said — 
for,  of  course,  I  got  it  all  out  of  Hildebrand  afterwards 
— "show  yourself  to  be  of  so  weak  and  unoriginal  a  cast 
of  mind  as  to  follow  the  example  of  the  countless  other 
young  men  of  rank  and  property, ' '  she  said,  ' '  who  have 
contracted  unequal  and  unhappy  unions  with  young  wo- 
men on  the  boards, ' '  she  said — and  like  her  classy  cheek ! 
Upon  which  Lord  Wretchingham  calmly  up  and  told 
her  that  his  word  was  his  bond,  and  that  I  had  got  both ; 
my  poor  dear  mother  having  insisted  from  the  begin- 
ning that  things  should  be  set  down  in  black  and  white, 
which  the  spelling  of  irrevokable  almost  proved  a  bar- 
rier the  poor  dear  could  not  tackle,  his  education  having 
been  neglected  at  Eton  to  that  extent. 

Me  and  my  poor  dear  mother  being — I  don't  mind 
telling  you  on  the  strict — prepared  for  a  struggle  with 
Wretchingham 's  family,  was  more  than  surprised  when, 
after  a  Saturday  to  Monday  of  anxious  expectancy,  a 
note  on  plain  paper  with  a  coronet  stamped  in  white 


THE    BREAKING    PLACE  137 

from  Lady  Blandish  informed  us  that  her  ladyship  had 
made  up  her  mind  to  call.  And  she  kept  the  appoint- 
ment as  punctual  as  clockwork,  driving  up  in  a  taxi,  and 
perfectly  plainly  dressed;  and  when  I  made  my  en- 
trance in  the  dearest  morning  arrangement  of  Valen- 
ciennes lace  and  baby  ribbon  you  ever  saw,  I  will  say 
she  met  me  like  a  lady  should  her  son's  intended,  and 
said  that  Lord  Blandish  and  her  had  come  to  the  deter- 
mination to  make  the  best  of  their  son's  choice,  and 
invited  me  down  to  stay  at  Blandish  Towers,  in  Hunt- 
shire,  when  the  run  of  The  Pop-in-Taw  Girl  broke  off  for 
the  autumn  holidays. 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "Lady  Blandish,"  I  said,  "of  course,  I 
shall  be  perfectly  delighted,"  and  let  her  know  how 
unwilling  I  felt  as  a  lady  to  make  bad  blood  between 
Lord  "Wretchingham  and  his  family.  "But,  of  course," 
I  said,  "my  duty  to  the  man  who  I  have  vowed  to 
love  and  honor  leaves  me  no  choice." 

"My  dear  Miss  Tossie  Trilbina,"  she  said,  "your  sen- 
timents towards  Wretchingham  do  you  the  utmost 
credit,"  she  said,  and  I  explained  to  her  that  though 
the  surname  sounds  foreign,  there  is  nothing  of  the 
Italiano-ice-creamo  about  yours  truly. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  in  that  sweetly  nasty  way  that  the 
Upper  Ten  do  seem  to  have  the  knack  of,  "do  not 
trouble  to  explain,  my  dear  Miss  Trilbina.  Lord  Blan- 
dish and  myself  are  quite  prepared,"  she  said,  "to 
accept  the  inevitable,"  she  said,  and  kissed  me,  and 
smiled  a  great  deal  at  my  poor  dear  mother,  who  was 
explaining  to  her  ladyship  that  her  family  did  not  re- 
gard an  alliance  with  the  aristocracy  as  anything  but 
a  match  between  equals,  and  that  my  education  had 
been  of  the  most  expensive  and  classy  kind  you  can 
imagine.  And  smiled  herself  into  her  taxi,  and  motored 
away. 

That  was  in  the  middle  of  the  summer  season,  and 


138  THE    BREAKING    PLACE 

I  bespoke  my  costumes  for  my  visit  to  my  new  relations 
next  day.  Of  course,  I  expected  a  house-party  of  really 
hall-marky,  classy  swells,  and  meant  to  do  the  honors 
and  help  Lady  Blandish  to  entertain  as  was  my  duty 
bound.  And  my  shooting  and  golfing  and  angling  cos- 
tumes, and  motoring  get-up  and  riding-habit,  and  tea- 
gowns  and  dinner-dresses  and  ball-confections,  were 
a  fair  old  treat  to  see,  and  did  Madame  Battens  credit.' 

Wretchingham  drove  me  down  in  his  18.26  h.p.  "Gad- 
about," with  my  dresser-maid  in  the  glass  case  behind, 
and  an  omnibus  motor  from  the  garage  behind  us  with 
my  dressing-baskets,  and  I  thought  of  poor  dear  mother 
at  home,  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  when  the  Towers 
rose  up  at  the  end  of  an  oak  avenue  longer  than  Eegent 
Street,  and  Wretchingham 's  two  sisters  came  running 
down  the  steps  to  hug  their  brother  and  be  presented 
to  their  new  sister,  and  the  white-headed  family  butler 
threw  a  glass  door  open  and  Wretchingham  led  me  in 
between  six  footmen,  bowing,  three  on  each  side. 

What  price  poor  little  me  when  I  heard  there  wasn't 
any  House-Party?  Cheap  wasn't  the  word,  with  all 
those  costumes  in  my  dress-baskets.  However,  I  faked 
myself  up  in  a  frock  that  I  really  felt  was  a  credit  to 
a  person  of  my  rank  and  station,  and  swam  down  to 
what  her  ladyship  called  a  "quiet  family  dinner." 

The  Earl  of  Blandish  came  in,  leaning  on  his  secre- 
tary's arm,  with  a  gouty  foot,  and  did  the  heavy  father, 
calling  me  "my  dear."  I  sat  on  his  lordship's  right 
hand,  and  certainly  he  was  most  agreeable,  telling  me 
the  black  oak  carvings  in  the  great  hall  were  by  Jacob 
Bean,  and  that  the  walled  garden  with  a  separate  division 
for  every  month  in  the  year  and  a  bowling  alley  in  the 
middle  had  been  made  by  a  lady  ancestor  of  his  who 
lived  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  was  a  friend 
of  the  person  who  wrote  Shakespeare. 

"Qh!"  I  said,  "I  suppose,"  I  said?  "in  those  days 


THE    BREAKING    PLACE  139 

bowls  were  not  considered  a  low  form  of  amusement. 
Though  if  ever  my  poor  dear  mother  and  father  did 
have  to  call  words,  it  would  be  over  his  weakness  for 
bowls  and  skittles  as  a  waste  of  time  and  leading  to 
betting  and  drink.  And  as  for  Shakespeare,  I  call  it 
all  very  well  for  literary  swells  with  nothing  else  to  do, ' ' 
I  said,  "but  what  the  Halls  cater  for  is  the  business 
gentleman  who  drops  in  with  a  pal  to  hear  the  popular 
favorite  in  a  ten-o'clock  turn  over  a  cigar  and  a  small 
Scotch.  And  gardening  never  was  much  in  my  line,"  I 
said,  "though  when  a  child  it  was  my  favorite  amuse- 
ment to  grow  mustard  and  cress  on  damp  flannel.  Hunt- 
ing is  my  passion,"  I  said,  "and  as  Wretchingham  has 
told  me  you  keep  a  first-class  stable  of  hunters  and 
hacks,  besides  carriage  beasts,  I  hope  to  show  your  lord- 
ship that  I  shan  't  disgrace  you, ' '  I  said,  and  asked  him 
when  the  next  meet  would  be? 

The  Earl's  old  eyebrows  went  up  to  the  top  of  his 
aristocratic  bald  forehead  as  he  said  not  until  October, 
and  then  only  for  cubbing,  and  the  two  girls  flushed 
up  red,  trying  not  to  laugh,  and  wriggled  in  their  chairs, 
and  Lady  Blandish  said  in  her  nice  nasty  way  that 
every  day  brought  innovations,  and  one  might  as  well 
ride  to  hounds  in  August  as  skate  on  artificial  ice  in 
May. 

"And  if  you  are  fond  of  sport,"  Lord  Blandish  said, 
"we  could  possibly  find  you  some  fishing.  Don't  you 
think  so,  my  dear  ? ' '  and  he  looked  at  his  wife. 

"I  have  my  salmoning  costume  with  me,"  I  said,  just 
to  let  them  know,  "and  a  rod,  and  everything.  And  I 
suppose  Wretchie  won't  object,"  I  said,  giving  the  poor 
thing  a  smile,  ' '  to  prompt  me  if  I  am  fluffy  in  the  busi- 
ness. ' ' 

' '  Dear  me ! "  said  Lady  Blandish,  ' '  how  stupid  of  me 
not  to  have  explained  before,"  she  said,  "that  this  is  a 
trouting  County  and  not  a  salmon  County,  and  that  such 


140  THE    BREAKING    PLACE 

trout  as  there  are  run  very  small."  And  the  two  girls 
choked  again  in  the  most  underbred  way  I  ever. 

I  said  I  'd  fall  back  on  golf,  having  a  killing  get-up  in 
my  basket,  but  there  wasn't  a  links  within  miles,  Lady 
Blandish  said,  and  how  sorry  she  was.  All  the  hot- 
weather  entertainment  she  had  it  in  her  power  to  offer 
me  in  their  quiet  country  home,  she  said,  was  an  occa- 
sional flower-show,  or  County  cricket-match,  or  a  garden- 
party,  or  a  friendly  dinner  with  people  who  were  not 
too  exacting.  In  September  there  would  be  the  birds, 
but  then  I  would  not  be  there.  It  was  too  unfortunate, 
she  said.  Not  that  her  saying  so  took  me  in  much. 

I  thought  the  top  of  my  head  would  have  come  off 
with  yawning  that  evening,  I  really  did ;  and  when  I  re- 
membered that  there  were  three  weeks  more  of  it  before 
me  I  could  have  screamed  out  loud.  Me  and  Wretch- 
ingham  went  for  a  spin  in  his  T-cart  next  morning  before 
lunch,  and  that  drive  settled  me  in  deciding  to  off  it  on 
the  next  chance. 

"Tossie  darling,"  said  the  poor  dear  thing,  "it  has 
gratified  my  father  exceedingly  to  ascertain,"  he  said, 
"that  you  are  fond  of  the  country;  because  a  condi- 
tion of  the  provision  he  is  willing  to  make  for  us  when 
we  are  married,"  he  said — and  he  would  have  put  his 
arm  round  my  waist  only  the  trotter  shied — "is  that 
we  reside  at  the  Dower  House,"  he  said,  "twenty  miles 
from  here,  and  lead  a  healthy  life  in  accordance  with 
his  views  as  regards  what  is  appropriate  for  future  land- 
owners who  will  one  day  hold  a  solid  stake  in  the  County. 
Of  course,  you  will  leave  the  Stage  forever,  my  dar- 
ling, ' '  he  said,  "  as  a  future  Countess  of  Blandish  cannot 
figure  upon  the  Lyric  Boards,"  he  said,  "without  in 
some  degree  compromising  her  reputation  and  bringing 
discredit  upon  the  family  of  which,"  he  said,  "she  has 
become  a  member.  My  father  will  allow  us  two  thou- 


THE    BREAKING    PLACE  141 

sand  a  year  at  first,"  he  said,  "which  will  enable  us 
to  keep  a  couple  of  motor-cars  and  a  hack  or  two,  and 
with  an  occasional  week-end  in  Town,  I  have  no  doubt, ' ' 
he  said,  "that  our  married  life  will  be,"  he  said,  "one 
of  ideal  happiness  for  both  of  us.  You  observe,"  he 
said,  pointing  with  his  whip  straight  over  the  trotter's 
ears,  "that  rather  low-pitched  stone  building  of  the 
Grange  description  down  in  that  wooded  hollow  there? 
The  house  is  quite  commodious,"  he  said.  "You  will 
appreciate  the  exceptional  garden;  and  as  there  is  a 
good  deal  of  arable  land  comprised,"  he  said,  "in  the 
estate,  I  shall  take  up  farming,"  he  said,  "with  enthu- 
siasm. ' ' 

"You  may  take  up  farming,"  I  said  haughtily,  "with 
enthusiasm,  dear  old  boy ;  but  what  I  say  is,  you  will  not 
take  it  up  with  yours  truly!  Do  you  suppose  in  cold 
blood  that  Tossie  Trilbina  is  the  sort  of  girl  to  sit  down 
in  the  middle  of  a  ploughed  field  and  lead  a  life  of  ideal 
happiness  with  a  farming  husband  in  gaiters,"  I  said, 
tossing  my  head,  "telling  me  how  the  turnips  are  look- 
ing every  evening  at  dinner,  and  taking  me  up  to  Town 
for  a  week-end,"  I  said,  "every  now  and  then  as  a  treat? 
No,  Hildebrand,"  I  said,  "clearly  understand,  much  as 
I  regret  to  say  it,  that  I  am  not  taking  any ;  and  unless 
the  old  gentleman  can  be  brought  to  see  the  reason," 
I  said,  "of  a  flat  in  Mayfair,  all  is  over  betwixt  me 
and  you,  and  I  shall  go  back  to  my  poor  dear  mother 
by  to-night 's  express, ' '  I  said,  ' '  if  the  lacerated  state  of 
your  feelings  does  not  permit, ' '  I  said,  ' '  of  your  taking 
the  steering-wheel." 

Of  course,  the  poor  dear  thing  was  dreadfully  upset, 
and  did  his  little  best  to  bring  Lord  Blandish  to  weaken 
on  his  spiteful  old  determination;  and  Lady  Blandish 
said  heaps  of  nice-sounding  nasty  things,  and  the  two 
girls  tried  to  be  sympathetic  and  not  to  look  as  if  they 


142  THE    BREAKING    PLACE 

were  really  ready  to  jump  for  joy.  But  the  Earl  re- 
mained relentless,  and  Lord  "Wretchingham  is  free.  I 
must  now  close.  Hoping  you  will  accept  this  explana- 
tion in  the  spirit  in  which  it  is  made, 

I  remain,  dear  Sir,  yours  respectfully, 

TOSSIE  TBILBINA. 


A  LANCASHIRE  DAISY 

ONE  of  the  giant  police-constables  on  duty  outside 
the  Cotton  Hall,  Smutchester,  upon  the  occasion  of  the 
Conference  of  the  National  Union  for  the  Emancipation 
of  Women  Workers,  was  seized  with  the  spirit  of  proph- 
ecy when  he  saw  Sal  o'  Peg's  borne  in,  gesticulating, 
declaiming,  carried  head  and  shoulders  above  an  insurg- 
ing  wave  of  beshawled  and  rampant  factory-girls. 

"Theeaw  goes  th'  Stormy  Pettrill,  Turn!"  he  roared 
to  a  fellow  guardian  of  the  public  peace.  "Neeaw  us 

be  sewer  to  ha'  trooble  wi'  theeay "  He  did  not  add 

"tykes." 

"Thee  mun  be  misteeawken,  mon,"  urged  Turn,  who 
had  newly  joined  the  Smutchester  City  Division.  "  'Tis 
boh  a  lil'  feer-feaced  gell  aw  cud  braak  between  ma 
finger  an '  thoomb  lig  a  staalk  o '  celery. ' '  The  great  blue 
eyes  of  the  "lil'  feer-feaced  gell"  had  done  execution, 
it  was  plain,  and  the  first  speaker,  who  was  a  married 
man,  snorted  contemptuously.  Sal  o'  Peg's  had  com- 
pletely earned  the  disturbing  nickname  bestowed  on  her. 
The  courts  and  alleys  of  the  roaring  black  city  would 
vomit  angry,  white-gilled,  heavy-shod  men  and  women  at 
one  shrill,  summoning  screech  of  hers.  The  police-con- 
stable upon  whose  features  she  had  more  recently  exe- 
cuted a  clog  war-dance  was  not  yet  discharged  from  the 
Infirmary,  though  the  seventeen  years  and  fragile  propor- 
tions of  his  assailant  had,for  the  twentieth  time,  softened 
"th'  Beawk"  into  letting  Sal  o'  Peg's  off  with  the 
option  of  a  fortnight  or  a  fine,  and  the  threat  of  being 

143 


144  A    LANCASHIRE    DAISY 

bound  over  to  keep  the  peace  next  time,  if  she  insisted 
in  being  "so  naughty." 

With  these  blushing  honors  thick  upon  her,  Sal  o' 
Peg's  attended  the  Conference,  and  became,  before  the 
close  of  the  presidential  address,  an  ardent  convert  to  the 
cause  of  Female  Suffrage.  During  the  debate  she 
climbed  a  pillar  and  addressed  the  meeting,  and  when, 
with  immense  difficulty,  dislodged  from  her  post  of  van- 
tage, she  took  the  platform  by  storm. 

"Why,  it's  a  child!"  chorused  the  delegates  from  the 
different  branches  of  the  Union,  whose  ramifications  ex- 
tend over  the  civilized  globe,  as  the  small,  slim,  light- 
haired  young  person  in  the  inevitable  shawl,  print  gown, 
and  clogs  climbed  over  the  brass  platform-rail,  and,  fold- 
ing cotton-blouse-clad  arms  upon  a  flat,  girlish  bosom, 
stood  motionless,  composed,  even  cheerful,  in  the  full 
glare  of  the  electric  chandelier,  and  under  the  full  play 
of  a  battery  of  some  two  thousand  feminine  eyes. 

"Do  let  the  little  darling  speak,"  begged  the  Honor- 
ary Secretary  of  the  Chairwoman,  who,  as  a  native  of 
Smutchester,  had  her  doubts.  But  Sal  o'  Peg's  had  not 
the  faintest  intention  of  waiting  for  permission. 

' '  Ah  'm  not  bit  o '  good  at  long  words,  gells, ' '  said  Sal 
o'  Peg's.  "Happen  ah '11  be  better  ondersteawd  wi'oot 
'em." 

The  thunder  of  clogs  in  the  body  of  the  hall  said 
"  Yes ! "  She  went  on :  "  Wimmin  sheawd  ha '  th '  Vote. 
Tis  theear  roight. "  (Tremendous  clogging,  mingled 
with  shrieks  of  "Weel  seayd,  lass!  Gie  us  th'  Vote!") 
She  hitched  her  shawl  about  her  with  the  factory-girl's 
movement  of  the  shoulders,  and  went  on.  "Yo'll  noan 
fleg  me  wi'  yo're  din.  Ah'm  boh  a  lil'  un,  boh  af  ha' 

got  spunk.  If  you  doubt  thot "  A  hundred  strident 

voices  from  the  body  of  the  hall  sent  back  the  refrain, 
"Ask  a  pleeceman!"  A  roar  of  laughter  shook  the 
roof. 


A    LANCASHIRE    DAISY  145 

"Ought  we  to  interfere?"  whispered  the  Honorary 
Secretary. 

"My  dear,  why  should  we?"  said  a  London  delegate, 
leaning  forward  to  answer.  "The  girl  has  got  them  in 
the  hollow  of  her  hand.  A  born  leader  of  women — a 
born  leader.  She  voices  in  her  untaught  speech  the 
heart-cry  of  thousands  of  her  dumb  and  helpless  sisters. 
She " 

The  born  leader  of  women  continued : 

"Ah  dunno  whoy  ah  niver  thout  o'  it  before,  but  'tis 
a  beawrfeaced  robbery  neawt  to  gie  us  th'  Vote.  Oor 
feythers  has  it,  an'  sells  it  fur  braass. "  (Screams, 
shrieks,  and  clogging. )  ' '  Oor  heawsbands  has  it,  an '  sells 
it  fur  braass."  (Tempestuous  applause.)  "Oor  lads, 
theay  has  it,  an '  sells  it  fur  braass.  Whoy  shouldna '  we 
ha'  it,  an'  sell  it  for  braass  tew?" 

The  enthusiasm  with  which  this  brilliant  peroration 
was  received  nearly  wrecked  the  Cotton  Hall.  No  more 
speeches  were  heard  that  night,  though  several  were  de- 
livered in  dumb  show,  and  Sal  o'  Peg's  awakened  upon 
the  morrow  to  find  her  utterances  reported  in  the  news- 
papers. To  the  sarcasm  of  the  leader-writer  Sal  o'  Peg's 
was  impervious.  She  "mun  goo  t'  Lunnon  neixt,"  she 
said,  "an'  leawt  them  tykes  at  the  Hoose  o'  Commeawns 
knaw  a  bit"  of  her  mind.  She  wasn't  afraid  of  Prime 
Ministers — not  she.  She  called  at  the  branch  office  of 
the  Union  twice  a  day,  imperatively  requesting  to  b 
forwarded  as  a  delegate  to  the  Metropolis.  When  her 
services  were  declined  with  thanks,  she  harangued  the 
populace  from  the  doorstep.  When  politely  requested 
to  move  on,  she  broke  a  window  with  one  clog,  and  patted 
the  office-boy  violently  upon  the  head  with  the  other. 
Then  she  burst  into  tears  and  retired,  supported  by  a 
dozen  or  so  of  sympathizing  comrades  of  the  factory. 

"  'Tis  a  beeawrnin'  sheame!"  they  said,  as  they  fas- 
tened up  their  chosen  representative's  loosened  flaxen 


146  A    LANCASHIRE    DAISY 

coils  with  hairpins  of  the  patent  explosive  kind,  contrib- 
uted from  their  own  solid  braids.  "But  donnot  thee 
fret,  Sal  o'  Peg's,  us '11  ha'  nah  dolly geat  but  thee,  sitha 
lass!"  And  they  sent  the  hat  round  among  themselves 
with  right  good-will.  They  were  not  quite  sure  what  a 
"dollygeat"  was,  but  thought  it  was  something  that 
could  walk  into  the  House  of  Commons,  defy  a  Min- 
ister to  his  nose,  dance  a  clog-dance  in  the  gangway 
of  the  Upper  House,  and  receive  in  chests  and  bagsful 
all  the  good  money  that  women  had  been  defrauded  of 
since  the  masculine  voter  first  plumped  for  a  considera- 
tion; of  that  they  were  "as  sure  as  deeawth." 

So  Sal  o'  Peg's  gave  notice  at  the  factory  that,  being 
thenceforth  called  to  figure  upon  the  arena  of  political 
life,  she  could  not  tend  frames  any  longer.  She  bought 
a  black  sailor  straw  hat  with  a  portion  of  the  subscribed 
fund,  and  tied  up  the  most  cherished  articles  of  her 
wardrobe  in  a  blue-spotted  handkerchief  bundle.  She 
traveled  express  to  London,  choosing  a  ' '  smoking  third, ' ' 
as  affording  atmospherical  and  social  conditions  less  re- 
mote from  her  life-long  experience.  .  .  .  The  journey 
was  purely  uneventful:  a  young  man  of  unrestrained 
amorous  proclivities  receiving  a  black  eye,  and  a  young 
woman  who  sneered  too  openly  at  the  blue-spotted  hand- 
kerchief bundle  suffering  the  wreck  of  a  bandbox  and 
sustaining  a  few  scratches.  The  guard — alas!  for  the 
frailty  of  man — being  all  upon  the  side  of  the  blue  eyes 
and  flaxen  coils  of  hair.  .  .  . 

I  suppose  the  reader  knows  Pelham's  Inn,  W.  C., 
where  are  the  headquarters  of  the  National  Union  for 
the  Emancipation  of  Working  Women?  There  is  no 
padding  to  the  armchairs,  cocoanut  matting  of  a  severe 
and  rasping  character  covers  the  Committee-room 
boards;  the  Committee  inkstand  is  of  the  zinc  office 
description  (the  Committee  are  not  there  to  be  comfort- 
able— just  the  reverse).  They  are  busy  women  of  small 


A    LANCASHIRE    DAISY  147 

spare  time  and  narrow  spare  means;  but  when  they 
found  Sal  o'  Peg's  sitting  on  the  doorstep,  they  found 
leisure  to  be  kind.  They  looked  at  the  clogs  with  pity, 
unaware  of  the  pas  seul  they  had  performed  upon  the 
countenance  of  a  policeman  still  in  bandages,  and  the 
great  blue  eyes  yearning  out  of  the  small  pale  face,  and 
the  ropes  of  fair  hair  tumbling  over  the  shabby  shawl 
that  enfolded  the  childish  figure  of  the  little  factory-girl 
who  had  traveled  up  to  London  for  the  sake  of  the 
Cause,  won  them  to  practical  expression  of  the  sympathy 
they  felt. 

"So  different  a  type  to  the  brawling,  violent  crea- 
ture," they  said,  "who  nearly  caused  a  riot  at  the  Smut- 
chester  Conference.  Her  one  dream  is  to  see  the  House 
of  Commons  and  speak  a  word  in  public  for  her  toiling 
sisters  of  the  factories."  And  those  of  them  who  wor< 
glasses  found  them  dimmed  with  the  dews  of  sympathetic 
emotion.  It  was  such  a  touching  story,  they  said,  of  faith 
and  enthusiasm  and  courage. 

It  is  upon  the  Records  of  the  Nation  that  the  events  I 
have  to  relate  took  place  in  the  Central  Hall  of  the  sacred 
fane  of  Westminster  between  four  and  five  o  'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  when  twenty  or  thirty  ladies,  well-known  ad- 
herents of  the  Cause,  appeared  upon  the  scene  and  asked 
for  Suffrage.  It  was  an  act  of  presumption,  almost  of 
treason,  bordering  on  blasphemy.  Still,  the  arguments 
that  were  not  drowned  were  sound.  They  were  all  house- 
holders, taxpayers,  earners,  and  owners  of  independent 
incomes  one  daring  female  said,  and  as  the  drunken  hus- 
band of  her  charwoman  possessed  a  vote,  she  thought  shr 
had  a  right  to  have  one  also.  The  Sergeant-  at- Arms  in- 
stantly directed  a  constable  to  quell  her.  Another  auda- 
cious creature  asked  for  the  Vote  Qualified.  She  de- 
manded that  the  Suffrage  should  indeed  be  given  to 
women,  but  only  to  those  women  who  should,  by  pass- 
ing a  viva  voce  examination  on  the  duties  of  citizenship, 


148 

prove  themselves  fit  to  discharge  them.  .  .  .  She  was 
listened  to  with  some  attention  until  she  suggested  that 
male  voters  should  be  subjected  to  a  similar  weeding-out 
process ;  upon  which  a  portly  inspector  bore  down  upon 
her,  clasped  her  in  a  blue  embrace,  and  carried  her,  pro- 
testing loudly,  down  the  hall,  amidst  demonstrations  of 
intense  excitement.  Members  cried,  "Shame!"  Mem- 
bers cried,  ''Serve  her  right!"  Passing  peers  put  up 
eye-glasses  and  stayed  to  see  the  fun.  Hustled  women 
shrieked,  "Cowards!"  Pushed  women  cried,  "Let  us 
alone!"  Punched  women  only  said,  "Owch!"  ...  It 
was  freely  translated  "Wretch!"  for  the  occasion.  The 
middle-aged  and  advanced  in  years  met  the  same  treat- 
ment as  the  younger  and  more  excitable.  .  .  .  All  were 
unceremoniously  expelled  by  the  stalwart  beings  in  blue 
from  the  sacred  precincts  where  such  inviolable  order 
is  habitually  maintained,  and  where  all  the  Proprieties 
find  their  permanent  home.  Crushed  headgear,  scat- 
tered handbags,  and  strange  derelict  fragments  of  femi- 
nine attire  bestrewed  the  scene  of  the  one-sided  fray; 
the  crowds  of  sympathizers  outside  cried,  "Boo!"  and 
waved  white  flags  in  defiance  as  a  dozen  arrests  were 
made  in  a  dozen  seconds.  .  .  .  And  a  young  woman  in 
a  brown  plaid  shawl  and  brass-bound  clogs  danced  with 
shoutings  upon  the  pavements  of  St.  Stephen's  Porch, 
and  while  her  long,  light  coils  of  hair  came  down  and 
her  hairpins  were  scattered  to  the  winds  of  Westmin- 
ster, she  asked,  in  the  Lancashire  dialect,  for  admittance 
to  the  Bar  of  the  House ;  for  justice  for  the  oppression 
and  downtrodden ;  for  the  blood  of  Ministers,  Peers,  and 
Members;  and  for  the  viscera  of  the  officials  who  were 
their  tools.  She  told  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer 
to  come  out  and  bring  the  Treasury  with  him ;  and  when 
he  did  not  come,  she  knocked  off  one  policeman's  helmet 
and  smote  another  with  one  of  her  clogs — tou jours  those 


A    LANCASHIRE    DAISY  149 

clogs ! — upon  the  nose.  Also  she  relieved  a  third  of  half 
a  whisker,  bit  another  in  the  hand,  kicked  them  all  in 
the  shins,  and  generally  made  history  as  six  police-con- 
stables bore  her,  shrieking  at  the  full  pitch  of  excellent 
lungs,  to  Blunderbuss  Row  Police  Station. 

There  were  newspaper  headlines  next  day — "Bedlam 
Let  Loose!"  "The  Shrieking  Sisterhood!"  "The  Terma- 
gant Spirit!"  "No  Choice  but  to  Use  Force!"  The  ar- 
rested demonstrators  were  paraded  at  the  police-court; 
the  damaged  policemen  made  an  imposing  show.  Tears 
choked  the  utterance  of  Mr.  Vincent  Squeers,  presiding 
magistrate,  as  he  asked:  "Were  thee,  indeed,  women 
who  had  abraded  the  features,  discolored  the  eyes, 
bruised  the  shins,  and  plucked  the  whiskers  from  the 
gallant  constables  who  stood  before  him  ?  Nay,  but  Mae- 
nads, Bacchantes,  priestesses  of  savage  rites,  unsexed 
Amazons — in  two  words,  emancipated  females!"  He 
found  a  melancholy  relief  in  imposing  a  fine  that  had 
no  precedent  in  cases  of  brawling,  or  fourteen  days'  im- 
prisonment. He  should  not  be  surprised  to  hear  that 
these  hunters  after  vulgar  notoriety  preferred  to  go  to 
Holloway,  to  luxuriate  on  prison  fare,  enjoy  calm,  un- 
deserved repose  on  straw  beds,  and  clothe  their  unregen- 
erate  limbs  with  the  drab  garments  generously  provided 
by  the  nation. 

"But  there  is  one  among  you,"  cried  Mr.  Vincent 
Squeers,  "who  has  been  innocently  led  away  by  your 
pernicious  example,  but  whom  the  spirit  of  Justice,  that 
dwells  in  the  bosom  of  every  Englishman,  that  hovers, 
genius-like,  above  this  Bench  to-day" — the  chief  clerk 
hastily  produced  a  white  handkerchief,  and  the  reporters 
shook  freedom  into  the  flow  of  their  Geyser  pens — "will 
stretch  forth  a  hand  to  protect  and  to  aid.  I  speak  of 
this  simple,  artless  child.  ..."  A  police-constable  felt 
his  nose,  and  another  groped  for  his  missing  whisker 


150  A    LANCASHIRE    DAISY 

as  Sal  o'  Peg's  stood  up  in  the  dock.  "Lured  from  her 
humble  home,  from  her  laborious  employment,  from  her 
upright-minded,  honest  associates,  by  these  immodest  and 
unwomanly  women,  cast  a  stranger  upon  the  streets  of 
London,  this  simple  country  blossom,  wilting  in  the 
atmosphere  tainted  by  habitual  vice  and  common  crime, 
appeals  to  the  chivalry  of  every  honest  man  who  ever 
had  a  mother" — the  chief  clerk  was  carried  from  the 
court  in  hysterics — "ay,  to  the  pity  of  every  woman 
who  is  not  bereft  of  that  heavenly  attribute. ' ' 

"Sheawt  opp,  thee  donowt  owd  hosebird!"  said  Sal  o' 
Peg's.  "Dosta  think  ah  niver  weur  in  a  teawzle  in  th' 
streeawts  or  a  skirmidge  wi'  th'  police  afeore?  Dustha 
see  th'  pickle  theam  girt  big  cheawps  is  in?  If  theay 
saay  theay  got  theawee  scratts  an'  sogers  fra'  eany 
wench  but  Sal  o'  Peg's,  they  be  leears  aw !  Sitha?  An' 
as  to  yon  weumen  an'  lasses,  yo  ca'  baad  neams,  I  ha' 
nowt  o'  truck  wi'  they.  I  coom  to  Lunnon  as  a  dolly- 
geat  fra  myseln.  Sitha  ? ' ' 

"The  child  speaks  only  the  roughest  dialect  of  her 
native  Lancashire,"  continued  Mr.  Vincent  Squeers, 
' '  which,  I  own,  I  am  unable  to  comprehend.  How  could 
the  hapless  young  creature  understand  the  poisonous 
shibboleth  poured  into  her  ears  by  the  abandoned  sister- 
hood whose  leading  evil  spirits  are  now  before  me  ?  They 
have  denied  all  knowledge  of  or  connection  with  her" — 
(as  indeed  they  had) — "her  who  stands  here — oh,  shame 
and  utter  disgrace! — in  the  dock  of  a  police  court  as  a 
result  of  their  vile  and  treacherous  usage  in  dragging 
her  from  her  home.  She  is  sufficiently  punished  by  this 
outrage  upon  that  innate  modesty  which  is  as  the  bloom 
upon  the  peach,  the — er,  ah ! — dew  upon  the  daisy.  Fined 
three-and-sixpence,  and  I  will  order  that  the  same  be 
discharged  out  of  the  Court  poor-box.  The  Missionary 
will  now  take  charge  of  the  poor  young  creature,  who 
will,  I  trust — ah ! — be  returned  to  her  sorrowing  family 


A    LANCASHIRE    DAISY  151 

in  the  course  of  the  next  twenty-four  hours.    Good-day, 
my  dear  child — good-day!" 

A  clog  whizzed  from  the  dock  and  hit  the  paneling 
behind  the  Bench.  The  Magistrate  looked  another  way, 
the  constables  coughed  behind  their  large  white  gloves 
as  Sal  o'  Peg's,  weeping  bitterly,  was  led  away  by  the 
Court  Missionary,  a  bearded  person  in  rusty  black,  with 
a  felt  pudding-basin  hat  and  a  soiled  white  necktie. 
Robbed  of  the  glory  of  battle,  denied  her  meed  of  ac- 
knowledgment for  doughty  deeds  achieved,  bereft  of  her 
Amazonian  reputation,  Sal  o'  Peg's  felt  that  life  was 
"scarcelin's  weath  livin'. "  And  the  afternoon  news- 
papers administered  the  final  blow.  Every  leader-writer 
shed  tears  of  pure  ink  over  the  child  lured  from  home, 
the  "daisy  with  the  dew  upon  it"  sprouted  in  a  dozen 
paragraphs.  Only  in  Smutchester  there  was  Homeric 
jest  and  uproarious  laughter.  The  girls  of  the  cotton- 
mills,  the  policemen  of  the  Lower  Town — these  knew 
their  Sal  o'  Peg's,  and  were  loud  in  their  appreciation 
of  the  satiric  humor  of  the  London  newspapers.  The 
Missionary  did  not  see  his  precious  charge  into  the  train 
for  Smutchester ;  a  clergyman 's  daughter,  who  had  come 
into  accidentally  compromising  relations  with  an  Amer- 
ican gentleman's  diamond  evening  solitaire  and  "wad" 
of  banknotes,  urgently  required  his  ministrations.  So 
a  burly  police-constable,  with  one  whisker  and  a  sore 
place  on  the  denuded  cheek,  performed  the  charitable 
office.  In  the  four-wheeler,  turning  into  the  Euston 
Road,  Sal  o'  Peg's  said  suddenly: 

"Thoo  wastna'  sheaved  this  mearnin',  lad?" 
"I  'adn't  no  time,  for  one  thing,"  said  the  police- 
constable  sulkily;  "an'  for  another,  I  'ad  to  keep  this 
whisker  on  as  evidence  that  you'd  pulled  out  the  other. 
And  a  lot  o'  good  evidence  does  when  Old  Foxey" — 
this  was  the  nickname  bestowed  upon  Mr.  Vincent 
Squeers  by  the  staff  of  the  Court — "  'as  made  up  'is 


152  A    LANCASHIRE    DAISY 

mind  not  to  listen  to  it."  He  rubbed  the  remaining 
whisker  thoughtfully. 

"Eh,  laad,  laad!"  cried  Sal  o'  Peg's,  bursting  into 
tears  and  falling  upon  the  neck  of  the  astonished  police- 
constable,  "but  theaw  knows  ah  did  it.  Theaw  said  sa 
just  neaw.  Eh,  laad,  laad!" 

"Are  you  a-crying?"  asked  the  police-constable,  over 
whose  blue  tunic  meandered  the  heavy  twists  of  fair  hair 
which  invariably  tumbled  down  under  stress  of  Sal  o' 
Peg's  emotion.  "Are  you  a-crying  because  you're  sorry 
you  pulled  out  my  whisker,  or  glad  as  that  you  did  it? 
Which?" 

Sal  o'  Peg's  lifted  radiant,  tearful  blue  eyes  to  the 
burly  police-constable's,  which  were  little  and  piggish, 
but  twinkling  with  something  more  than  mere  reproof. 

"Ah  be  gleawd,"  said  Sal  o'  Peg's  simply. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  police-constable,  who  was  not 
only  a  man  after  all,  but  a  bachelor.  He  put  a  large 
blue  arm  round  the  slim  little  figure  of  the  war-goddess. 
"You've  'ad  my  whisker;  I'll  'ave  a  kiss." 

"Teawk  it,  laad,"  said  Sal  o'  Peg's. 

Hitherto,  in  her  short  but  vivid  experience  of  life, 
policemen  had  occupied  a  different  plane,  moved  in  an- 
other sphere.  They  were  beings  to  dodge,  defy,  jeer  at, 
and  punch  when  you  could  get  them  down.  Flower- 
pots were  kept  on  window-sills  of  upper  floors  expressly 
for  dropping  on  their  helmets.  She  had  danced  upon 
the  upturned  face  of  one,  given  another  a  swollen  nose, 
distributed  bites  and  shin-kicks  impartially  among  others. 
This  Lunnon  one  had  kissed  her  for  pulling  out  his 
whisker.  She  looked  at  him  with  melting  eyes.  The 
hitherto  impregnable  bastion  of  her  heart  was  taken — 
and  by  a  member  of  the  Force. 

"When  tha  dost  sheave,  laad,  send  tha  whisker  to  Ah 
by  peawst.  Th'  address  be  Sal  o'  Peg's,  Briven's 
Buildin  's,  Clog  Ceawrt,  East  Side,  Smutchester ! ' ' 


A    LANCASHIRE    DAISY  153 

"I  won't  send  it,  you  pretty  little  bit  o'  frock,"  said 
the  enamored  police-constable.  "I'll  wait  till  my  next 
leave  an' " 

"Breng  it  then,  laad,"  sighed  Sal  o'  Peg's. 


A  PITCHED  BATTLE 

THE  great  Maestro  sat  at  the  piano,  a  small,  square 
instrument.  Upon  it  were  piles  of  music,  a  bottle  of 
Ehine  wine,  half  emptied,  a  cup  of  black  coffee,  a  plate 
of  sliced  garlic  sausage,  and  a  roll  of  black  bread,  pep- 
pered outside  with  aniseed.  A  bottle  of  ink  was  bal- 
anced on  the  music-desk,  a  blotted  scroll  of  paper  ob- 
scured the  yellowed  keyboard.  As  the  great  composer 
worked  at  the  score  of  his  new  opera,  he  breakfasted, 
taking  draughts  from  the  bottle,  bites  of  sausage  and 
bread,  and  sips  of  coffee  at  discretion.  He  was  a  quaint, 
ungainly  figure,  with  vivacious  eyes,  and  his  ill-fitting 
auburn  wig  had  served  him,  like  the  right  lapel  of  his 
plaid  dressing-gown,  for  a  pen-wiper  for  uncounted 
years. 

The  Maestro  was  not  alone  in  the  dusty  studio  to 
which  so  many  people,  both  of  the  great  and  little 
worlds,  sought  entrance  in  vain.  An  olive-skinned  youth, 
shabbily  dressed  in  a  gray  paletot  over  a  worn  suit  of 
black — a  young  fellow  of  sixteen,  with  a  square,  shaggy 
black  head  and  a  determined  chin,  the  cleft  in  which 
was  rapidly  being  hidden  by  an  arriving  beard — leaned 
against  a  music-stand  crammed  with  portly  volumes, 
his  dark  eyes  anxiously  fixed  upon  the  old  gentleman 
at  the  piano,  who  dipped  in  the  ink  and  wrote,  and 
wrote,  and  dipped  in  the  ink,  occasionally  laying  down 
the  pen  to  strike  a  chord  or  two,  in  seeming  forgetful- 
ness  of  his  visitor. 

Suddenly  the  Maestro 's  face  beamed  with  a  cheerful 
smile. 

154 


A    PITCHED    BATTLE  155 

"There,  mon  cher  Gladiali!"  He  handed  the  newly- 
written  sheet  of  music  to  the  boy,  and  spread  his  wrin- 
kled fingers  above  the  keys.  ' '  This  is  the  great  aria-solo 
I  spoke  of.  Sing  that  at  sight — your  training  should 
make  such  a  task  an  easy  one — and  let  us  see  what  stuff 
you  are  made  of.  Allans!"  And  he  struck  the  opening 
chord. 

Carlo  Gladiali  turned  pale  and  then  red.  He  crossed 
himself  hastily,  grasped  the  sheet  of  paper,  cast  his  eyes 
over  it  anxiously,  and,  meeting  with  a  smiling  glance 
the  glittering  old  eyes  of  the  Maestro,  he  inflated  his 
deep  chest  and  sang.  A  wonderful  tenor  voice  poured 
from  his  boyish  throat ;  heart  and  soul  shone  in  his  eyes 
and  thrilled  in  his  accents.  Tears  of  delight  dropped 
upon  the  piano-keys  and  upon  the  hands  of  the  composer, 
and  when  the  last  pure  note  soared  on  high  and  swelled 
and  sank,  and  the  song  ceased,  the  old  musician  cried: 
"Thou  art  a  treasure!  Come,  let  me  embrace  thee!" 
and  clasped  the  young  singer  to  his  breast.  "Once 
more,  mon  fils — once  more ! ' ' 

And  as  he  seated  himself  at  the  piano,  sweeping  the 
plate  of  sausage  into  the  wastepaper-basket  with  a  flour- 
ish of  the  large,  snuff-stained  yellow  silk  handkerchief 
with  which  he  wiped  his  eyes,  the  door,  which  had  been 
left  ajar,  was  flung  open,  and  a  little  dark-eyed,  fair- 
haired  girl,  who  carried  a  Pierrot-doll,  ran  quickly  into 
the  room. 

' '  Marraine  brought  me ;  she  is  panting  up  the  stairs 
because  she  is  so  fat  and  they  are  so  steep.  Oldest 

Papa "  she  began ;  but  the  Maestro  held  up  his  hand 

for  silence  as  the  song  recommenced.  More  assurance 
was  in  Carlo's  phrasing;  the  flexibility  and  brilliancy 
of  his  voice  were  no  longer  marred  by  nervousness.  As 
the  solo  reached  its  triumphant  close,  the  Maestro  said, 
slapping  the  boy  on  the  back  and  taking  a  gigantic 
pinch  of  snuff: 


156  A    PITCHED    BATTLE 

"The  Archangel  Gabriel  might  have  done  better. 
Aha!"  He  turned,  chuckling,  to  the  little  girl,  who 
stood  on  one  leg  in  the  middle  of  the  narrow  room, 
pouting  and  dangling  her  Pierrot.  "La  petite  there  is 
jealous.  Is  it  not  so?" 

"Oldest  Papa,  you  make  a  very  big  mistake!"  re- 
turned the  little  maiden,  pouting  still  more.  "I  am  not 
jealous  of  anybody  in  the  world — least  of  all,  a  boy 
like  that!"  Her  dark  eyes  rested  contemptuously  on 
the  big,  shy,  square-headed  fellow  in  the  gray  paletot. 

"A  boy,  she  calls  him!"  chuckled  the  Maestro.  "Ma 
mignonne,  he  is  sixteen — six  years  older  than  thyself! 
Hasten  to  grow  up,  become  a  great  prima  donna,  and 
he  shall  sing  Romeo  to  thy  Juliette — I  predict  it!" 

' '  I  had  rather  sing  with  my  cat ! ' '  observed  the  little 
lady  rudely. 

Carlo  flushed  crimson;  the  Maestro  chuckled;  and  a 
stout  lady  who  had  followed  her,  panting,  into  the  room, 
murmured,  "Oh!  la  mechanic!"  adding,  as  the  Maestro 
rose  to  greet  her:  "But  she  grows  more  incorrigible 
every  day.  This  morning  she  pulled  the  feathers  out  of 
Coco's  tail  because  he  whistled  out  of  tune." 

The  elfin  face  of  the  small  sinner  dimpled  into  mis- 
chievous smiles. 

"But  that  was  not  being  as  wicked  as  the  Maestro, 
who  got  angry  at  rehearsal,  and  hit  the  flute-player  on 
the  head  with  his  baton,  so  that  it  raised  a  hump.  You 
told  me  that  yourself,  and  how  the  Maestro " 

"Quite  true,  petite;  I  did  fetch  him  a  rap,  I  promise 
you,  and  afterwards  I  put  bank-notes  for  a  hundred 
francs  on  the  lump  for  a  plaster.  But  come,  now,  sing 
to  me,  and  we  will  give  Signor  Carlo  here  something 
worth  hearing,  ficoutez,  mon  cher!" 

"Very  well,  I  will  sing;  but,  first,  Pierrot  must  be 
comfortably  seated.  That  little  armchair  is  just  what 
he  likes!"  And,  as  quick  as  thought,  the  willful  little 


A    PITCHED    BATTLE  157 

lady  tilted  a  pile  of  music  out  of  the  little  armchair 
upon  the  floor.  Then  she  placed  Pierrot  very  carefully 
in  his  throne,  and,  bidding  him  be  very  good  and  listen, 
because  his  bonne  petite  Maraewrwas  going  to  sing  him 
something  pretty,  she  tripped  to  the  piano,  and  de- 
murely requested  the  aged  musician  to  accompany  her 
in  the  Rondo  of  ' '  Sonnambula. ' ' 

Ah!  what  a  miraculous  voice  proceeded  from  that 
small,  willful  throat!  Stirred  to  the  depths  by  the  ex- 
traordinary power  and  beauty  of  the  child's  delivery, 
Carlo  Gladiali  listened  enthralled;  and  when  the  last 
notes  rippled  from  the  pretty  red  lips  of  the  now  de- 
mure little  creature,  the  big  boy,  forgetting  her  rudeness 
and  his  own  shyness,  started  forward,  and,  sinking  on 
one  knee  and  seizing  the  small  hand  of  the  child-singer, 
he  kissed  it  impulsively,  crying:  "Ah,  Signorina,  you 
were  right,  a  thousand  times!  Compared  with  you,  I 
sing  like  a  cat!" 

' '  Oh,  no !  I  did  not  mean  to  say  that ! ' '  the  tiny  lady 
was  beginning  graciously,  when  the  Maestro  broke  in : 

"You  both  sing  like  cherubs  and  say  civil  things  to 
one  another.  One  day  you  will  sing  like  angels — and 
quarrel  like  devils !  Please  Heaven,  you  will  both  make 
your  debut  under  my  baton,  and  then,  if  I  crack  a  flute- 
player  's  head,  it  will  be  for  joy." 

***** 

Ten  years  had  elapsed.  Carlo  Gladiali  had  risen  to 
pre-eminence  as  a  public  singer,  had  attained  the  prime 
of  his  powers  and  the  apogee  of  his  fame.  Courted, 
feted,  and  adored,  the  celebrated  tenor,  sated  with  suc- 
cess, laden  with  gifts,  blase  with  admiration,  retained 
a  few  characteristics  that  might  remind  those  who  had 
known  and  loved  him  in  boyhood  of  the  ingenuous, 
honest,  simple  Carlo  of  ten  years  ago. 

Certainly  Carlo's  jealousy  of  the  prima  donna  who 
should  dare  to  usurp  a  greater  share  of  the  public  plaud- 


158  A    PITCHED    BATTLE 

its  than  he  himself  received  was  childish  in  its  unrea- 
sonableness, and  Othello-like  in  its  tragic  intensity. 

At  first,  he  would  join  in  the  compliments,  and  smile 
patronizingly  as  he  helped  the  successful  debutante  to 
gather  up  the  bouquets.  Then  his  admiration  would 
cool;  he  would  tolerate,  endure,  then  sneer,  and  finally 
grind  his  teeth.  He  would  convey  to  the  audience  over 
one  shoulder  that  they  were  idiots  to  applaud,  and  wither 
the  triumphant  cantatrice  with  a  look  of  infinite  con- 
tempt over  the  other.  He  had  been  known  to  feign 
sleep  in  the  middle  of  a  great  soprano  aria  which,  against 
his  wish,  had  been  encored.  He  had — or  it  was  malevo- 
lently reputed  so — bribed  the  hotel  waiter  to  place  a 
huge  dish  of  macaroni,  dressed  exquisitely  and  smoking 
hot,  in  the  way  of  a  voracious  contralto  who  within  two 
hours  was  to  essay  for  the  first  time  the  arduous  role 
of  Brynhild.  The  macaroni  had  vanished,  the  contralto 
had  failed  to  appear.  Numerous  were  the  instances  sim- 
ilar to  these  recorded  of  the  tenor  Gladiali,  and  repeated 
in  every  corner  of  the  opera-loving  world. 

But  it  was  in  London,  where  the  great  singer  was 
"starring"  during  the  Covent  Garden  Season  of  19 — , 
that  the  haughty  and  intolerant  Carlo  was  to  meet  his 
match. 

At  rehearsal  one  morning,  Rebelli,  the  famous  basso, 
said  to  Gladiali,  with  a  twinkle:  "A  new  'star'  has 
dawned  on  the  operatic  horizon.  La  Betisi,  the  pretty 
little  soprano  with  the  fiend's  temper  and  the  seraph's 
voice,  has  created  a  furore  at  Rome  and  Milan.  She  will 
'star'  over  here  in  her  successful  roles.  I  have  it  from 
the  impresario  himself." 

"Elybene!"  Carlo  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled 
with  superb  patronage.  "We  shall  be  very  glad  to  wel- 
come the  little  one.  .  .  .  Artists  should  know  how  to 
value  genius  in  others." 

"How  well  you  always  express  things!"  said  Rebelli, 


A    PITCHED    BATTLE  159 

grinning1.  "She  is  to  sing  Isolina  in  'Belverde'  on  the 
10th.  The  Spanish  prima  donna  has  broken  her  con- 
tract. As  Galantuomo,  you  will  have  an  excellent  op- 
portunity of  judging-  of  her  talents,"  he  added,  as  he 
turned  away,  "and  scowling  at  the  lady." 

But  Carlo  did  not  scowl  at  first.  He  was  all  engaging 
courtesy  and  cordial  welcome  at  the  first  rehearsal,  when 
he  was  presented  ceremoniously  to  a  tiny  little  lady 
with  willful  dark  eyes,  pouting  scarlet  lips,  and  hair  as 
golden  as  her  own  Neapolitan  sunshine.  She  vaguely 
reminded  the  tenor  of  somebody  he  had  seen  before. 

"The  Maestro  is  coming  from  Naples  to  conduct," 
he  heard  Rebelli  say.  "He  vowed  that  La  Betisi  should 
make  her  debut  under  no  baton  save  his  own.  Her  role 
will  be  Isolina  in  his  '  Belverde, '  in  which,  you  know,  she 
created  such  a  sensation  at  La  Scala. " 

' '  And  you,  Signer,  are  to  sing  the  great  part  of  Galan- 
tuomo in  the  'Belverde'?"  said  the  Betisi  demurely  to 
Gladiali.  "This  time  I  will  not  say,  '/  had  rather  sing 
with  my  cat!'  ' 

Carlo  started.  Yes ;  there  was  no  mistaking  the  will- 
ful mouth  and  the  flashing  defiant  eyes.  The  little  girl 
who  had  sung  so  divinely  in  the  Maestro 's  dusty  room 
ten  years  ago  was  the  new  operatic  "star."  But  he 
was  not  jealous  of  the  Betisi  as  yet.  He  said  the  most 
exquisite  things — as  only  an  Italian  can  say  them — and 
bowed  over  her  hand. 

"The  Signorina  has  fulfilled  the  glorious  promise  of 
her  childhood  and  the  prophecy  of  the  Maestro,"  he 
said.  "She  who  once  sang  like  a  cherub  now  sings  like 
an  angel.  I  am  dying  to  hear  you ! "  he  added. 

"Ah!"  cried  the  Betisi  with  a  little  trill  of  laughter, 
"if  you  are  dying  now,  what  will  you  do  afterwards?" 
The  speech  might  have  meant  much  or  nothing,  and, 
though  Carlo  Gladiali  winced  a  little,  he  made  no  com- 
ment. 


160  A    PITCHED    BATTLE 

A  few  rehearsals  later  a  cloud  of  snuff  enveloped  him, 
and  he  was  clasped  in  the  arms  of  a  brown  great-coat 
of  antique  design.  Add,  above,  a  gray  woolen  comforter 
and  a  traveling  cap  with  ear-pieces,  and,  below,  a  pair 
of  green  trousers,  ending  in  cloth  boots  with  patent- 
leather  toecaps,  and  you  have  the  portrait  of  the  Maestro 
in  traveling  costume. 

' '  Heaven  be  praised,  my  dear  Carlino,  that  I  have  lived 
to  see  this  day!  .  .  .  Have  you  renewed  acquaintance 
with  my  little  witch,  my  enchanted  bird,  my  drop  of 
singing-water?  Embrace,  my  children;  your  Maestro 
wishes  it!" 

And  Gladiali  touched  the  cheek  of  Emilia  Betisi  with 
his  lips.  Her  sparkling  eyes  looked  mockingly  into  his. 
Then  the  Maestro,  who  spoke  not  a  word  of  English, 
scrambled  to  the  conductor's  chair,  and  commenced  to 
harangue  the  musicians  who  constituted  the  orchestra 
in  a  fluent  conglomeration  of  several  other  languages, 
and  the  rehearsals  of  "Belverde"  began. 

The  new  soprano  and  the  new  opera  made  an  in- 
stantaneous and  unparalleled  "hit."  Carlo  helped  to 
pick  up  La  Betisi 's  bouquets,  and  made  a  pretty  speech 
to  her  at  the  final  descent  of  the  curtain.  But  his  heart 
was  not  in  his  eyes  or  on  his  lips. 

Upon  the  second  representation,  he  yawned  in  the 
middle  of  Isolina's  great  aria,  and  he  openly  sneered  at 
the  audience  for  encoring  the  song  three  times.  In  the 
last  Act,  in  the  Garden  Scene,  which  offered  the  principal 
opportunity  for  the  display  of  the  new  prima  donna's 
art,  Carlo  sucked  jujubes,  and  openly  wore  one  in  his 
cheek  while  receiving,  as  Galantuomo,  from  the  mad- 
dened Isolina  the  most  feverish  protestations  of  love. 
He  noted  something  more  than  feigned  frenzy  in  the 
flaming  black  eyes  of  the  Betisi  at  this  juncture,  and, 
somewhat  unwisely,  permitted  himself  to  smile.  Next 
moment  he  received  a  deep  scratch  upon  the  cheek, 


A   PITCHED    BATTLE  161 

which  tingled  for  a  moment,  then  bled  copiously,  oblig- 
ing the  tenor  to  sing  the  final  Romanza  with  a  handker- 
chief to  his  face. 

"Convey  to  Signer  Gladiali  my  profoundest  apolo- 
gies," said  the  Betisi  to  her  dresser.  "He  will  really 
think  that  he  was  singing  a  duet  with  a  cat!  But  the 
next  performance  goes  better. ' '  Her  dark  eyes  gleamed, 
her  red  lips  smiled.  She  thirsted  for  the  second  repre- 
sentation. 

So  did  Carlo.  He  had  thought  out  a  few  little  things 
calculated  to  drive  a  cantatrice  to  the  pitch  of  despera- 
tion. For  instance,  at  the  second  encore  of  her  great 
song,  separated  only  by  a  duet  from  his  great  song  in 
the  First  Act,  he  would  fetch  a  chair  and  sit  down. 
Aha! 

But — whether  his  intention  had  leaked  out  through 
Rebelli,  to  whom  in  a  moment  of  champagne  he  had 
confided  it,  or  whether  the  Betisi  was  in  league  with  de- 
mons, let  it  be  decided — it  was  she  who  fetched,  not  a 
chair,  but  a  three-legged  stool,  and  sat  down  on  it  in 
the  middle  of  his  first  encore.  And  so  charming  an  air 
of  patience  did  she  assume,  and  so  genuine  seemed  her 
pity  for  the  deluded  public  who  had  redemanded  the 
song,  that  Signer  Carlo,  who  wore  a  strip  of  black  Court 
plaster  on  one  cheek,  nearly  had  an  apoplexy.  He 
meant  to  eat  jujubes  through  her  great  song,  but  the 
Betisi  was  prepared.  She  produced  a  box  and  offered 
them  to  him,  singing  all  the  while  more  brilliantly  than 
she  had  ever  sung  before;  and  when  the  house  rose  at 
her  in  rapture  and  demanded  an  encore,  she  tripped 
and  fetched  the  three-legged  stool  and  gave  it,  with  a 
triumphant  curtsey,  to  the  foaming  Galantuomo.  And 
the  crowded  house  roared  with  delight. 

But  the  punishment  of  Carlo  came  in  the  Second  Act. 
In  the  celebrated  Garden  Scene,  where  slighted  love 
drives  Isolina  into  temporary  madness,  she  not  only 


162  A    PITCHED    BATTLE 

scratched  her  Galantuomo  on  the  other  cheek,  but  pulled 
his  wig  off.  And  in  the  crowning  scene,  where  Isolina 
reveals  herself  as  the  daughter  of  the  King,  and  sum- 
mons the  Court  to  witness  the  humiliation  of  Galantuomo 
by  beating  on  a  gong  which  is  suspended  from  a  tree, 
came  the  Betisi's  great  opportunity.  Running  thougl: 
the  most  difficult  passages  of  the  arduous  scena  with  the 
greatest  nonchalance,  disposing  of  octaves,  double  oc- 
taves, and  ranging  from  sol  to  st-flat  in  the  violin-clef 
with  the  utmost  ease,  she  electrified  and  enthralled  her 
hearers;  and,  in  the  gusto  of  singing,  when  the  moment 
arrived  for  striking  on  the  gong  previously  referred  to. 
she  missed  the  instrument,  and  struck  the  tenor  violently 
upon  the  nose.  The  unfortunate  organ  attained  panto- 
mimic dimensions  within  the  few  minutes  that  ensued 
subsequently  to  the  delivery  of  the  blow  and  previous 
to  the  falling  of  the  curtain,  and  I  have  heard  was 
favored  by  the  gallery  with  a  special  call. 

"Alas,  Signer  Carto,  I  know  not  how  to  express  my 
regret !  .  .  .  I  was  carried  away  ..."  faltered  the  Bet- 
isi,  as  with  secret  triumph  and  feigned  remorse  she 
looked  upon  the  tenor's  swollen  nose. 

Carlo  gave  her  a  passionate  glance  over  it.  As  it  had 
enlarged,  so  had  his  heart  and  his  understanding;  he 
saw  his  enemy  beautiful,  triumphant — a  Queen  of  Song. 
He  was  conquered  and  her  slave. 

"Never  mind  my  nose,"  he  said  generously.  "I  am 
beaten,  fairly  beaten,  and  with  my  own  weapons.  You 
are  a  clever  woman,  Signora,  and  a  great  singer.  Per- 
mit me  to  take  your  hand." 

"There,"  she  said,  and  gave  it.  "And  you,  Signer, 
are  a  magnificent  artist,  though  I  have  sometimes  thought 
you  a  stupid  man.  What  is  it  but  stupidity — Dio!" 
she  cried,  "to  be  jealous  of  a  woman  of  whom  one  is  not 
even  the  lover  or  the  husband?" 

"Give  me  the  right  to  be  jealous,"  said  Carlo  the 


A    PITCHED    BATTLE  163 

tenor.  ' '  Make  me  one  and  the  other !  Marry  me,  Emilia. 
I  adore  you!" 

An  atmosphere  of  snuff  and  mildew  enveloped  them, 
as  the  Maestro,  the  date  and  design  of  whose  evening 
dress-suit  baffled  the  antiquarian  and  enraptured  the  car- 
icaturist, embraced  both  the  tenor  and  the  soprano  in 
rapid  succession. 

"Aha!  Mes  enfants,  am  I  not  a  true  prophet?"  he 
cried.  "Hasten  to  grow  up,  I  said  to  the  little  one  ten 
years  ago,  and  Carlo  there  shall  one  day  sing  Romeo  to 
thy  Juliet."  He  embraced  them  again.  "You  sing  like 
angels — you  quarrel  like  devils!  Heaven  intended  you 
for  one  another.  Be  happy!"  And  the  Maestro  blessed 
the  betrothed  lovers  with  a  sprinkling  of  snuff. 


THE  TUG  OF  WAR 

MEN  invariably  termed  her  "a  sweet  woman."  Women 
called  her  other  things. 

What  was  she  like?  Of  middle  height  and  "caress- 
able,  ' '  with  a  rounded,  supple  figure,  exquisitely  groomed 
and  got  up !  Her  golden  hair  would  have  been  merely 
brown,  if  left  to  Nature.  It  came  nearly  to  her  eye- 
brows in  the  dearest  little  rings,  and  was  coaxed  into 
the  loveliest  of  coils  and  waves  and  undulations.  Her 
eyes  were  lustrous  hazel,  her  eyelashes  and  eyebrows 
as  nearly  black  as  perfect  taste  allowed.  Her  cheeks 
were  of  an  ivory  pallor,  sometimes  relieved  with  a  faint 
sea-shell  bloom.  Her  features  were  beautifully  cut,  in- 
clining to  the  aquiline  in  outline.  Her  voice  was  low 
and  tender,  especially  when  she  was  saying  the  sort  of 
thing  that  puts  a  young  fellow  out  of  conceit  with  the 
girl  he  is  engaged  to,  and  makes  the  married  man  won- 
der why  he  threw  himself  away.  Why  he  was  such 
an  infuriated  ass,  by  George !  as  to  beg  and  pray  Clara 
to  marry  him  ten  years  ago,  and  buy  a  new  revolver 
when  she  said  it  was  esteem  she  felt  for  him,  not  love. 
Why  Fate  should  ordain  just  at  this  particular  junc- 
ture that  he  should  encounter  the  one  woman,  by  jingo ! 
the  only  woman  in  the  world  who  had  ever  really  under- 
stood and  sympathized  with  him !  It  was  Mrs.  Osborne  's 
vocation  to  make  men  of  all  grades,  ranks,  and  ages 
ask  this  question.  She  had  followed  her  chosen  path  in 
life  with  enthusiasm,  let  us  say,  collecting  scalps,  with 
here  and  there  a  little  shudder  of  pity,  and  here  and  there 
a  little  smart  of  pain.  Fascination,  exercised  almost  in- 

164 


THETUGOFWAR  165 

voluntarily,  was  to  her,  as  to  the  cobra,  the  means  of 
life.  Not  in  a  vulgar  sense,  because  the  late  Colonel 
Osborne  had  left  his  widow  handsomely  provided  for. 
But  the  excitement  of  the  sport,  the  keen  delight  of 
capturing  new  victims — bringing  the  quarry  boldly  down 
in  the  open,  or  setting  insidious  snares,  pitfalls,  and  traps 
for  the  silly  prey  to  blunder  into — these  joys  the  huntress 
knows  who  sharpens  her  arrows  and  weaves  her  webs 
for  Man. 

I  have  said — or  hinted — that  other  women  did  not 
love  Mrs.  Osborne.  Knowing,  as  they  did,  that  the 
lovely  widow  frankly  despised  them,  her  own  sex  re- 
sponded by  openly  declaring  war.  They  knew  her 
strength,  and  never  attacked  her  save  in  bands.  Yet, 
strange  to  say,  the  invincible  Mrs.  Osborne  was  never  so 
nearly  worsted  as  in  a  single-handed  combat  to  which 
she  was  challenged  by  a  mere  neophyte — "a  chit" — as, 
had  she  lived  in  the  eighteenth  instead  of  the  twentieth 
century,  the  fair  widow  would  have  termed  Polly  Over- 
shott. 

Polly's  real  name  was  Mariana,  but,  as  everyone  in 
the  county  said,  Polly  seemed  more  appropriate.  Sir 
Giles  Overshott  had  no  other  child,  and  sometimes  seemed 
not  to  regret  this  limitation  of  his  family  circle.  Lady 
Overshott  had  been  dead  some  five  years  when  the  story 
opens,  and  Sir  Giles  was  beginning  to  speak  of  himself 
as  a  widower,  which  to  experienced  ears  means  much. 

The  estate  of  Overshott  Foxbrush  was  a  fine  one,  un- 
encumbered, and  yielding  a  handsome  rent-roll.  It  was 
understood  that  Polly  would  have  nearly  everything. 
She  had  consented  in  the  most  daughterly  manner  to 
become  engaged  to  the  eldest  son  of  a  county  neighbor, 
a  young  gentleman  with  whom  she  was  very  much  in  love, 
Costebald  lanson  Smithgill,  commonly  known  as  "Cis" 
Smithgill,  his  united  initials  forming  the  caressing  little 
name.  He  was  six  feet  high,  and  had  a  bass  voice  with 


166  THETUGOFWAR 

treble  inflections,  which  he  was  training  for  a  parlia- 
mentary career.  He  had,  until  the  demise  of  an  elder 
brother  removed  him  from  the  service  of  his  country,  held 
a  lieutenancy  in  the  Guards.  As  to  his  family,  who 
does  not  know  that  the  Smithgills  are  a  family  of  ex- 
treme antiquity,  descended  from  that  British  Princess 
and  daughter  of  Vortigern  who  drank  the  health  of  Hen- 
gist,  proffering  the  Saxon  General  the  mead-horn  of  wel- 
come when  he  first  set  his  conquering  foot  on  British 
soil?  Who  does  not  know  this,  knows  nothing.  The 
mead-horn  is  said  to  be  enclosed  in  the  masonry  of  tho 
eldest  portion  of  Hengs  Hall,  the  family  seat  in  the 
country  of  Mixshire,  where,  of  course,  the  scene  of  our 
story  is  laid.  And  Polly  and  Cis  had  been  engaged 
about  two  months  when  Mrs.  Osborne  took  The  Sabines, 
and  was  called  on  by  the  county,  because  Osborne  had 
been  the  cousin  of  an  Earl,  and  she  herself  came  of  a 
very  good  family.  You  don't  want  any  name  much 
better  than  that  of  Weng.  And  Mrs.  Osborne  came  of 
the  Wengs  of  Hollowshire. 

She  took  The  Sabines  for  the  sake  of  her  health,  which 
required  country  air.  It  was  an  old-fashioned,  square 
Jacobean  house  of  red  brick  faced  with  stone,  and  it 
boasted  a  yew  walk,  the  yews  whereof  had  been  wrought 
by  some  long-moldered-away  tree-clipper  into  arboreal 
representatives  of  the  Rape  of  the  Sabines.  That  avenue 
was  one  of  the  lions  of  the  county,  and  every  fresh 
tenant  of  the  place  had  to  bind  him  or  herself,  under 
fearful  penalties,  to  keep  the  Sabine  ladies  and  their 
abductors  properly  clipped. 

Mrs.  Osborne  was  destitute  of  the  faculty  of  reverence, 
Lady  Smithgill  of  Hengs  said  afterwards.  Because  early 
in  June,  when  she  drove  over  to  call — it  would  not  be- 
come even  a  Smithgill  to  ignore  a  Weng  of  Hollowshire 
— upon  turning  a  curve  in  the  avenue  so  as  to  command 
the  house,  the  lawn,  and  the  celebrated  Yew  Tree  Walk, 


THETUGOFWAR  167 

the  new  tenant  of  The  Sabines,  exquisitely  attired  in  a 
Paris  gown  and  carrying  a  marvelous  guipure  sunshade, 
appeared  to  view ;  Sir  Giles  Overshott  was  with  her,  and 
the  lady  and  the  baronet  were  laughing  heartily. 

"Mrs.  Osborne  simply  shrieked,"  Lady  Smithgill  said 
afterwards,  in  confidence  to  a  few  dozen  dear  friends; 
' '  and  Sir  Giles  was  quite  purple — that  unpleasant  shade, 
don 't  you  know  ? 

"It  turned  out  that  they  were  amusing  themselves 
at  the  expense  of  The  Sabines.  I  looked  at  her,  and  I 
fancy  I  showed  my  surprise  at  her  want  of  taste. 

"  'We  think  a  great  deal  of  them  in  the  county,'  I 
said,  'and  Sir  Giles  can  tell  you  how  severe  a  censure 
would  be  pronounced  by  persons  of  taste  upon  the  tenant 
who  was  so  audacious  as  to  deface  or  so  careless  as  to 
neglect  them,  or  even,  ignorantly,  to  make  sport  of  them. ' 

"At  that  Sir  Charles  became  a  deeper  shade,  almost 
violet,  and  she  uncovered  her  eyes  and  smiled.  I  think 
somebody  has  told  her  she  resembled  Bernhardt  in  her 
youth. 

"  'Dear  Lady  Smithgill,'  she  said,  or  rather  cooed  (and 
those  cooing  voices  are  so  irritating!),  'depend  on  it, 
I  shall  make  a  point  of  keeping  them  in  the  most  perfect 
condition.  To  be  obliged  to  pay  a  forfeit  to  my  landlord 
would  be  a  nuisance,  but  to  be  censured  by  persons  of 
taste  residing  in  the  county,  that  would  be  quite  insup- 
portable.'  Then  she  rang  for  tea,  and  there  were  eight 
varieties  of  little  cakes,  which  must  have  been  sent  down 
from  Buszard's,  and  a  cut-glass  liqueur  bottle  of  rum 
upon  the  tray.  '  Do  you  take  rum  ? '  she  had  the  audacity 
to  ask  me.  I  did  not  stoop  to  decline  verbally,  but 
shook  my  head  slightly,  and  she  gave  me  another  of 
those  smiles  and  passed  on  the  rum.  Sir  Charles  brought 
it  me,  and  I  waved  it  away,  speechless,  absolutely  speech- 
less, at  the  monstrosity  of  the  idea. 

"She  overwhelmed  me  with  apologies,  of  course. 


168  THETUGOFWAR 

"And  both  Sir  Giles — who,  I  regret  to  see,  is  con- 
stantly there — and  Sir  Costebald,  who  has  once  called — 
consider  her  a  sweet  woman.  But — think  me  forebod- 
ing if  you  will — I  cannot  feel  that  county  Society  has 
an  acquisition  in  Mrs.  Osborne. ' ' 

"Papa  goes  to  The  Sabines  rather  often,"  said  Polly 
Overshott,  when  it  came  to  her  turn  to  be  the  recipient 
of  Lady  Smithgill's  confidence.  "He  does  say  that  Mrs. 
Osborne  is  a  sweet  woman,  and  he  is  helping  her  to  choose 
some  brougham  horses.  He  says  the  pair  she  brought 
down  are  totally  unfit  for  country  roads.  And  as  for 
the  rum,  she  offered  it  to  me.  Colonel  Osborne  held  a 
post  in  the  Diplomatic  Service  at  Berlin,  and  Germans 
drink  it  in  tea,  and  I  rather  like  it,  though  a  second 
cup  gives  you  a  headache  afterwards." 

"Mary!"  screamed  Miss  Overshott 's  mamma-in-law 
elect,  who  had  effected  this  compromise  between  Polly 
and  Mariana. 

"As  regards  The  Sabines,"  Polly  went  on,  "we  have 
bowed  down  before  them  for  years  and  years,  and  we 
shall  go  on  doing  it,  but  they  are  absurd  all  the  same. 
So  are  our  lead  groups  and  garden  temples  at  Over- 
shott— awfully  absurd " 

"I  suppose  you  include  our  Saxon  buttress  and  Ro- 
man pavement  at  Hengs  in  the  catalogue  of  absurdi- 
ties," said  Lady  Smithgill  icily.  "Fortunately,  Sir 
Costebald  is  not  a  widower,  or  they  might  stand  in  some 
danger  of  being  swept  away.  At  the  present  moment, 
let  me  tell  you,  Mary,  your  lead  figures  and  garden 
temples  are  far  from  secure.  That  woman  leads  your 
father  by  the  nose — twines  him  round  her  little  finger. 
Cis  tells  me " 

"What  does  Cis  know  about  it?"  said  Polly,  flushing 
to  the  temples. 

"Cis  is  a  man  of  the  world,"  said  Lady  Smithgill. 
"But  at  the  same  time  he  is  a  dutiful  son.  He  tells 


THETUGOFWAR  169 

everything  to  his  mother.  It  seems — Cis  personally 
vouches  for  the  truth  of  this — that  Sir  Giles  is  constantly 
at  The  Sabines — in  fact,  every  day.  .  .  .  He  is  dressed 
for  conquest,  it  would  appear. ' ' 

"Cis  or  Papa?"  asked  Polly,  with  feigned  innocence. 

"Sir  Giles  wears  coats  and  neckties  that  would  be  con- 
demned as  showy  if  worn  by  a  bridegroom,"  said  Lady 
Smithgill  rapidly.  "He  is  perfumed  with  expensive  ex- 
tracts, and  his  boots  must  be  torture,  Cis  says,  knowing 
all  one  does  know  of  the  Overshott  tendency  to  gout. 
He  never  removes  his  eyes  from  Mrs.  Osborne,  laughs 
to  idiocy  at  everything  she  says,  and  simply  lives  in  the 
corner  of  the  sofa  next  her.  He  monopolizes  the  con- 
versation. Nobody  else  can  get  in  a  word,  Cis  tells  me. ' ' 

"Since  when  did  Cis  begin  to  be  jealous?"  said  Polly 
under  her  breath. 

"I  did  not  quite  catch  your  remark,"  returned  Lady 
Smithgill.  "By  the  way,  Mary,  I  hope  you  will  wear 
those  pearls  as  often  as  you  can.  They  require  air,  sun- 
shine, and  exercise.  ...  I  contracted  my  chronic  rheu- 
matic tendency  thirty  years  ago  through  sitting  in  the 
garden  with  them  on.  For  days  together  Sir  Costebald  's 
mother  used  to  skip  in  them  upon  the  terrace,  but  I 
never  went  as  far  as  that." 

"The  pearls — what  pearls?"  asked  Polly  vaguely. 

' '  Dear  Mary,  when  a  fiance  makes  a  gift  of  such  beauty 
— to  say  nothing  of  its  value — and  the  strings  were  orig- 
inally purchased  for  two  thousand  pounds — it  is  cus- 
tomary for  the  recipient  to  exhibit  a  little  apprecia- 
tion," Lady  Smithgill  returned. 

' '  Appreciation ! ' ' 

' '  Of  course  you  thanked  Cis,  my  dear.  I  never  doubted 
that.  But  there,  we  will  say  no  more.  ..." 

Polly 's  blue  eyes  flashed.  She  rose  up ;  she  had  ridden 
over  to  the  Hall  alone,  and  her  slight  upright  figure 
looked  its  best  in  a  habit. 


170  THETUGOFWAR 

"I  should  like  to  say  a  little  more."  She  put  up 
her  hand  and  unpinned  her  hat  from  her  close  braids 
of  yellow-gold,  and  tossed  the  headgear  into  a  neighbor- 
ing chair.  "Dear  Lady  Smithgill,  Cis  has  not  given 
me  any  pearls.  Perhaps  he  has  sent  them  to  Bond  Street 
to  be  cleaned " 

' '  Cleaned !    They  are  in  perfect  condition. ' ' 

"Or — or  perhaps  he  has  given  them  to  some  one  else. 
I  have  seen  very  little  of  Cis  lately, ' '  Polly  ended.  ' '  But 
Papa  tells  me  that  he  is  a  good  deal  at  The  Sabines. 
Papa  seemed  to  find  him  as  much  in  the  way  as  ...  as 
Cis  found  Papa.  And — her  new  kitchenmaid  is  the  sis- 
ter of  our  laundrywoman,  and  a  report  reached  me  that 
she  had  lately  been  wearing  some  magnificent  pearls.  .  .  . 
I  thought  nothing  of  it  at  the  time,  but  now.  ..." 

There  was  a  snorting  gasp  from  Lady  Smithgill.  All 
had  been  made  clear.  Her  double  chin  trembled,  and 
her  eyes  went  wild. 

' '  Mary ! ' '  she  cried.  ..."  I  have  been  blind !  My  boy 
— my  infatuated  boy!  That  woman  has  a  positively 
fiendish  power  over  men.  .  .  .  She  will  enslave — en- 
snare Cis  as  she  has  done  your  father  and  dozens  of 
others.  Oh!  my  dear,  there  are  stories.  .  .  .  She  is 
relentless.  The  Sowersea's  second  son,  De  la  Zouch 
Sowersea,  is  now  driving  a  cab  in  Melbourne,  and  the 
Countess  attributes  everything  to  her.  At  Berlin — 
where  her  husband  had  a  diplomatic  appointment,  and 
she  learned  to  offer  refined  English-women  rum  in  their 
tea — there  were  worse  scandals — agitations,  duels!  Now 
my  son  is  in  peril.  Save  him,  Mary!  Do  something 
before  it  is  too  late ! ' ' 

"I  can  hardly  drop  in  at  The  Sabines — say  I  have 
called  for  my  property,  and  take  Cis  and  Papa  away," 
said  Polly,  her  short  upper  lip  quivering  with  pain  and 
anger.  "But  I  will  think  over  what  is  best  to  be  done. 
In  the  meantime  do  not  worry  Cis.  Leave  him  to  go  hi;- 


THETUGOFWAR  171 

way.    We  need  not  be  too  nervous.    He  and  Papa  will 
keep  an  eye  upon  each  other,"  she  ended. 

''You  know  more  of  this  than  you  have  told  me," 
poor  Lady  Smithgill  gasped.  "There  are  scandals  in 
the  air — people  are  talking — about  my  boy  and  that  wo- 
man !  Why  did  she  ever  come  here  ? ' '  the  unhappy  lady 
murmured.  "I  said  from  the  first  that  she  would  be  no 
acquisition  to  the  county!" 

Polly 's  cob,  Kiss-me-Quick,  came  round,  and  Polly  took 
leave.  She  had  warm  young  blood  in  her  veins,  and  an 
imperious  temper  of  her  own,  and  to  be  asked  to  "do 
something"  to  add  a  fresh  access  of  caloric  to  the  obvi 
ously  cooling  temperature  of  one's  betrothed  is  not  flat- 
tering. Yes,  she  had  suspected  before ;  yes,  she  had 
known  more  than  she  had  told  the  proprietress  of  the 
agitated  double  chin  and  the  agitated  maternal  feelings. 
Sir  Giles  had  betrayed  Cis  as  unconsciously  as  he  had 
betrayed  himself.  "Really,  Poll,  I  think  you  ought  to 
keep  the  young  man  better  to  heel/'  he  had  said.  "He 
means  no  harm,  but  Mrs.  Osborne  is  a  dangerously  fasci- 
nating woman,  and  a  woman  of  that  type  possesses  ad- 
vantages over  a  girl.  And,  of  course,  I  don't  suggest 
anything  in  the  nature  of  disloyalty  to  yourself — Cis  is 
the  soul  of  honor  and  all  that.  But  to  see  an  engaged 
young  fellow  sitting  on  footstools,  and  lying  on  the  grass 
at  the  feet  of  a  pretty  woman — who  doesn't  happen  to  be 
the  right  one — turning  up  his  eyes  at  her  like  a  dying 
duck  in  a  thunderstorm — by  George ! — irritates  me.  He 
is  always  in  Mrs.  Osborne 's  pocket,  and  one  never  can 
get  a  word  with  her  alone — I  mean,  nobody  is  allowed 
to  usurp  her  attention  for  an  instant.  And  here  is  the 
key  to  the  Crackle-Room,  since  you  are  asking  for  it." 

And  Sir  Giles  handed  his  daughter  the  key  in  ques- 
tion, a  slim,  rusty  implement  belonging  to  the  show- 
room of  Overshott,  an  octagonal  boudoir,  periodically 
dusted  and  swept  by  the  housekeeper's  reverent  hands, 


172  THE    TUG   OF   WAR 

but  otherwise  untouched,  since  Lady  Barbara  Overshott, 
the  friend  and  correspondent  of  Pope  and  Addison,  was 
found  by  her  distracted  husband  sitting  stone  dead  at 
her  spinet  before  the  newly-copied  score  of  the  ' '  Ode  on 
Saint  Cecilia's  Day,"  which  had  been  sent  her  with  the 
united  compliments  of  the  author  and  the  composer.  The 
furniture  of  the  boudoir  was  of  the  reign  of  William 
and  Mary,  the  walls  panelled  with  pink  lacquer  beaded 
with  ormolu,  the  shelves,  brackets  and  cabinets  laden 
with  priceless  specimens  of  crackle  ware — the  joy  of  the 
connoisseur  and  the  envy  of  the  collector. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Polly,  taking  the  key.  "I  was 
anxious  to  see  for  myself  how  many  of  Lady  Bab 's  vases 
and  bowls  are  left  to  us."  She  looked  very  tall  and 
very  fair,  and  rather  terrifying  as  she  confronted  Sir 
Giles.  They  were  in  the  hall  of  Overshott,  the  doors 
of  which  stood  wide  open  to  the  faint  September  breeze 
and  the  hot  September  sunshine,  and  Sir  Giles,  who  was 
going  to  luncheon  at  The  Sabines,  was  putting  on  a 
thin  dust-coat  in  preparation  for  the  drive.  He  jumped 
at  the  reference  to  the  crackle. 

"I  suppose  Mrs.  Brownlow  has  told  you  that  I  have 
removed  a  piece  or  two,"  he  said,  bungling  with  the 
sleeves  of  his  dust-coat,  for  lack  of  the  daughterly  hitch 
at  the  back  of  the  collar  which  would  have  induced  the 
refractory  garment  to  go  on. 

"Mrs.  Brownlow  has  told  me  that  a  baker's  dozen  of 
bowls  and  vases  and  plaques  and  teapots — the  cream  of 
the  collection,  in  fact,"  said  Polly,  "are  adorning  Mrs. 
Osborne  's  drawing-room. ' ' 

"Confound  it!"  said  Sir  Giles,  as  he  struggled  with 
his  garment.  ' '  The  crockery  isn  't  entailed ;  and  if  I  de- 
sire to  give  a  teapot  to  a  friend  I  suppose  I  can  do  as  I 
like  with  my  own !  And — I  can 't  keep  the  cart  waiting. 
Fanchon  won't  stand." 

' '  Undoubtedly, ' '  said  Polly,  becoming  cool  as  Sir  Giles 


THE    TUG   OF    WAR  173 

grew  warm.  ' '  Only — if  you  are  going  on  giving  teapots 
to  friends,  and  there  is  a  hamper  of  china  at  this  moment 
under  the  seat  of  the  cart — I  think  it  would  be  advisable 
to  change  the  name  of  the  Crackle-Room.  One  might  call 
it  the  'Plundered  Apartment,'  or  something  equally  ap- 
propriate." 

"Call  it  what  you  choose,  my  dear."  Sir  Giles  was 
now  recovering  from  the  shock  of  the  unexpected  on- 
slaught. "I  have  said  the  crackle  is  no  more  entailed 
than  Overton  Foxshott  or  the  Lowndes  Square  house — 
or  anything  else  that  at  present  I  may  call  my  own.  If 
I  were  a  younger  man,  I  might  plunder  my  mother  and 
disappoint  my  promised  wife  for  the  pleasure  of  making 
a  considerable  present  of  jewelry  to  a  woman  ten  years 
my  senior.  As  it  is " 

Sir  Giles  did  not  finish  the  speech,  but  strode  angrily 
out  and  got  into  the  cart,  and  gave  Polly  a  short,  gruff 
"Good-bye,"  as  he  drove  away,  leaving  that  puzzled 
young  woman  on  the  doorsteps. 

"  'Plunder  my  mother  and  disappoint  my  promised 
wife.  .  .  .  Present  of  jewelry  ...  a  woman  ten  years 
his  senior.'  .  .  .  Can  Cis  have  been  giving  jewels  to  Mrs. 
Osborne?"  Polly  wondered.  The  course  of  her  love  af- 
fair had  run  so  smoothly  that  she  was  at  a  loss  to  account 
for  the  pain  at  her  heart  and  the  fever  in  her  veins.  Sir 
Giles's  complaint  she  diagnosed  correctly.  He  was  jeal- 
ous .  .  .  jealous  of  Cis !  He  was  angry  with  Polly.  He 
had  reminded  her  that  he  could  do  as  he  liked  with  his 
own,  that  the  county  might  call  her  an  heiress,  but  the 
county  had  no  certain  grounds  for  the  assertion.  Jeal- 
ous and  angry,  the  dear,  cheery  Dad.  Because  Cis  chose 
to  loll  upon  the  grass  at  the  skirts  of  a  woman  who  was 
his  senior  by  many  more  years  than  ten.  Polly  ordered 
round  Kiss-me- Quick,  and  rode  over  to  Hengs  Hall,  pon- 
dering these  things  in  her  mind.  Much  had  been  re- 
vealed to  her,  but  it  was  for  Lady  Smithgill  to  lift  the 


174  THETUGOFWAR 

last  corner  of  the  veil  and  disclose  to  Cis's  future  wife 
the  true  meaning  of  Sir  Giles's  reference  to  jewels. 

"So  Cis  gave  her  the  pearls,  and  Dad  has  given  her 
the  crackle  to  recover  lost  ground.  Mrs.  Osborne  must 
be  a  clever  woman,"  Polly  reflected,  as  she  rode  slowly 
home  through  the  sunset  lanes  on  Kiss-me- Quick. 

"How  was  it  going  to  end,  all  this? 

"If  Dad  married  Mrs.  Osborne,  it  will  be  extremely 
unpleasant  to  possess  a  stepmother  who  has  been  made 
love  to  by  one 's  husband.  And  should  Mrs.  Osborne  suc- 
ceed in  marrying  Cis "  Polly  tightened  the  reins 

involuntarily,  and  Kiss-me-Quick  quickened  her  paces. 
' '  Let  her,  if  she  wants  him.  No ;  let  him  if  he  wants 
her.  But  first — oh,  first — there  will  be  a  Tug  of  War! 
I  will  not  endure  to  be  routed  on  my  own  ground  by 
this  designing  charlataness, "  thought  Polly. 

In  London  it  might  have  happened — almost  without 
remark.  But  here — here  in  the  open — under  familiar 
pitying,  curious  eyes.  .  .  .  Never,  never,  never!  And 
with  each  repetition  of  the  word  Kiss-me-Quick  danced' 
at  a  cut  of  the  whip.  For  Polly  was  humane,  yet  human. 

The  double  report  of  a  gun  in  one  of  the  Heng  cop- 
pices gave  Kiss-me-Quick  an  excuse  for  more  dancing, 
and  presently,  as  Polly  looked,  shading  her  blue  eyes 
with  her  half-gauntleted  right  hand,  Ciss  and  a  keeper 
came  plainly  into  view.  She  pulled  up  Kiss-me-Quick 
and  waited,  as  the  young  man,  leaving  his  gun  with  the 
keeper,  crossed  the  hot  stubbles  dangling  a  brace  of 
birds. 

"Why,  Polly  dear!"  He  tried  to  look  natural  and  at 
ease  as  he  lifted  his  leather  cap  from  his  crisp  brown 
waves.  ' '  If  you  had  told  me  you  thought  of  riding  over 
to  see  the  mother,  I'd  have  called  for  you  and  brought 
you  over." 

"It  was  a  sudden  idea,  Cis,"  Polly  said,  as  she  gave 
him  her  gloved  hand. 


THETUGOFWAR  175 

' '  Can  you  tie  these  birds  on  the  saddle — or  shall  I  send 
them  over?"  asked  Cis,  glad  of  an  excuse  that  made  it 
possible  to  fix  his  eyes  below  the  level  of  hers.  ' '  They  're 
clean  shot,"  he  added. 

' '  Fasten  them  on — there 's  a  strap  in  the  saddle  pocket 
— and  I  will  leave  them  at  The  Sabines  as  I  pass ! ' '  said 
Polly  cheerfully. 

Cis's  jaw  dropped:  he  turned  pale  under  his  sun  tan. 
"Leave  them  at  The  Sabines!"  he  repeated  blankly. 

"I  thought,"  said  Polly,  bending  a  cool,  amused 
glance  upon  her  lover's  perturbed  countenance,  "that 
you  meant  them  for  Mamma.  To  be  sure,  she  is  not 
Mamma  yet,  but  it  is  a  pretty  compliment  to  treat  her  as 
though  she  were  already  Papa's  wife — taking  the  pearls 
to  show  her  before  you  brought  them  to  me!  I  call  it 
quite  sweet  of  you ! ' '  Polly  ended. 

"I — I!"  The  young  man's  face  was  an  extraordi- 
nary study.  "I  am  so  glad  you're  pleased,"  he  stut- 
tered. 

"Dad  is  with  her  to-day,"  went  on  Polly,  stroking 
Kiss-me-Quick 's  glossy  neck  with  her  whip-lash.  "He 
took  her  over  a  cargo  of  crackle  china  out  of  Lady  Bab 's 
room.  China  is  a  taste  one  begins  to  cultivate  at  her 
age,  dear  thing,  and  I  suppose  they  are  having  a  nice, 
quiet,  cosy  afternoon,  arranging  the  pieces.  She  has  her 
fads.  Dad  has  his,  and  I  am  sure  they  will  get  on  ex- 
cellently together.  Dear  me !  how  warm  you  are !  Come 
to  tea  to-morrow !  Good-bye ! ' ' 

And  Polly  rode  quickly  away.  Sore  as  she  was,  angry 
and  jealous  as  she  was,  she  laughed  as  the  vision  of  Cis's 
hot,  astonished,  indignant  face  rose  before  her.  She 
laughed  again  as  she  turned  in  at  the  bridle-gate  of  The 
Sabines.  But  she  was  grave  and  earnest  as  she  dis- 
mounted at  the  hall-door  and  followed  Ames,  the  butler, 
down  the  long,  cool  hall  to  the  drawing-room. 

"Miss  Overshott." 


176  THE    TUG   OF   WAR 

The  announcement  made  Sir  Giles  attempt  to  get  up 
from  the  footstool  on  which  he  was  sitting,  but  he  did 
not  succeed  at  the  first  attempt,  thanks  to  his  rheuma- 
tism, and  his  daughter's  eye  lighted  on  him  at  once. 

"Don't  move,  Dad,  dearest.  Why  should  you?  Oh! 
Mrs.  Osborne!"  Polly  flew  to  the  fair  widow,  who  ad- 
vanced, cool,  smiling,  and  exquisitely  clad,  to  greet  her 
visitor.  "Oh,  Mrs.  Osborne,  I  am  so — so  glad!"  Polly 
seemed  choking  with  joyful  tears  as  she  caught  the 
rounded  waist  of  Melusine  in  her  strong  young  embrace, 
and  vigorously  kissed  the  exquisitely  powdered  cheeks. 
"And  I  may  call  you  Mamma — mayn't  I?" 

"Mamma?"  echoed  Sir  Giles,  sitting  puzzled  on  the 
footstool. 

' '  Mamma  ? ' '  re-echoed  Mrs.  Osborne  in  cooing  accents 
of  surprise. 

' '  You  see,  Dad  has  told  me  all, ' '  explained  Polly,  turn- 
ing beaming,  childlike  eyes  of  happiness  upon  the  em- 
barrassed pair.  "Though  Cis  knew  before  I  did,  and  I 
hardly  call  that  quite  fair.  But  as  he  is  to  be  your  son, 

dear  Mrs.  Osborne — as  I  am  to  be  your  daughter 

"Why,  there  is  the  crackle  arranged  upon  your  cabinets 
already!  How  nice  it  looks!  But  it  will  all  be  yours, 
presently,  won't  it,  Mamma?"  Polly  gave  Mrs.  Os- 
borne another  kiss,  and  then  fluttered  over  to  Sir  Giles, 
who  sat  petrified  upon  the  footstool,  and  gave  him  a 
couple.  "You  mustn't  be  jealous,"  she  said,  "you  fool- 
ish old  Dad !  And  now,  Mamma  darling,  won 't  you  give 
me  some  tea?" 

' '  Dear  Mary,  with  pleasure ! ' '  assented  Mrs.  Osborne, 
who  knew  that  her  hand  had  been  forced,  and  yet  could 
not  help  admiring  the  audacity  of  the  coup.  As  her 
graceful  form  undulated  to  the  tea-table,  she  cast  a  glance 
at  Sir  Giles,  raising  her  beautifully  tinted  eyebrows  al- 
most to  her  golden-brown  curls.  She  gave  him  credit 
for  being  a  party  to  the  plot,  while  he,  poor  astonished 


THE    TUG   OF   WAR  177 

gentleman,  was  as  innocent  as  a  new-born  babe.  In  the 
passing  out  of  a  cup  of  tea  she  realized  that  a  double 
game  was  no  longer  possible,  and  that  Polly  Overshott 
had  the  stronger  hand.  ' '  Your  father, ' '  she  said,  as  she 
gave  Polly  her  tea,  "has  enlisted  a  powerful  advocate. 
All  was  not  so  settled  as  you  seem  to  think,  dear  Mary, 

but "  And  she  sighed,  and  extended  her  white  hand 

to  Sir  Giles,  and  helped  him  up  from  the  footstool ;  and 
he  was  in  the  act  of  gracefully  kissing  that  fair  hand  as 
Cis,  in  riding-dress,  pale,  agitated,  and  breathless  from 
the  gallop  over,  was  ushered  in. 

' '  Cis ! ' '  cried  Polly,  realizing  that  the  supreme  moment 
of  the  Tug  of  War  was  now  or  never.  Her  eyes  were 
blue  fires,  her  cheeks  red  ones,  as  she  moved  swiftly  and 
gracefully  to  her  lover  and  led  him  forward.  ''Kiss 
Mamma  and  shake  hands  with  Dad, ' '  she  said,  and  added 
with  a  coquetry  of  which  Cis  had  never  thought  her  ca- 
pable: "and  then,  perhaps,  you  may  kiss  me."  Bewil- 
dered, choking  with  the  reproaches,  the  recriminations 
with  which  he  was  bursting,  and  which  it  need  hardly 
be  explained  were  intended  for  Mrs.  Osborne's  private 
ear,  the  young  man  obeyed. 

"I — I  congratulate  you  both,"  he  said  thickly.  Mrs. 
Osborne  had  never  felt  so  little  the  niceties  of  a  situa- 
tion in  her  life.  Nonplused,  angry,  and  perturbed,  she 
looked  every  hour  of  her  age,  despite  pink  curtains ;  and 
the  powder  only  served  to  accentuate  the  suddenly  re- 
vealed hollows  in  her  face.  Polly,  as  I  have  explained, 
had  never  worn  such  an  air  of  coquetry,  of  brilliancy, 
of  dare-devil,  defiant  mastery  as  she  now  displayed.  But 
her  final  blow  was  to  be  dealt — and  she  dealt  it. 

' '  Mamma  darling, ' '  she  cooed,  taking  the  vacated  stool 
at  Mrs.  Osborne's  feet — the  stool  contested  for  by  both 
the  discomfited  wooers — "how  cosy  we  are  here — all  to- 
gether! Won't  you  please  Dad — and  me — and  Cis — by 
bringing  out  the  pearls!" 


178  THETUGOFWAR 

' '  The — pearls ! ' '  Mrs.  Osborne  said.  An  electric  shock 
went  through  her;  she  turned  stabbing  eyes  upon  the 
speechless  Cis.  And  Sir  Giles,  studying  her  face,  made 
up  his  mind  that  he  would  never  marry  that  woman — 
not  if  Polly  did  her  level  best  to  bring  the  match  about. 

While  Polly  prattled  on. 

"The  pearls,  of  course.  I  told  Cis  I  thought  it  sweet 
of  him  to  bring  them  to  show  you — as  though  I  were 
really  your  daughter,  don't  you  know.  And  if  you  will 
fasten  them  round  my  neck  yourself,  I  shall  think  it 
sweet  of  you.  Where  have  you  hidden  them?  Why,  I 
believe  you  are  wearing  them  now — to  keep  them  warm 
for  me — under  your  lace  cravat,  you  dear,  darling 
thing!" 

The  affectionate  daughter-elect  raised  a  guileless  hand 
and  twitched  the  jewels  into  sight. 

Mrs.  Osborne,  ashy  pale,  and  with  Medea-like  eyes,  un- 
fastened the  jewels  from  her  throat. 

"Here  they  are,  dear  Mary.  Take  them — and  may 
they  bring  you  all  the  happiness  I  wish  you!"  said  Mrs. 
Osborne  in  cooing  accents. 

Polly  could  not  restrain  a  little  shudder,  but  she  was 
grave. 

"Now  Cis  and  I  will  go,"  she  said,  when  the  pearls 
were  fastened  round  her  neck  over  the  neat  white  collar. 
"I  am  sure  you  and  Dad  want  to  be  alone.  Come,  Cis 
dear." 

And  she  kissed  Mrs.  Osborne  again,  and  bore  Cis — not 
unwilling,  strangely  fascinated  by  the  new  Polly  so  sud- 
denly made  manifest — away.  They  were  riding  slowly 
home  to  dinner  at  Overshott  Foxbrush,  when  the  sound 
of  wheels  rattling  behind  them,  and  Fanchon's  well- 
known  trot,  brought  a  covert  smile  to  Polly's  lips. 

Mrs.  Osborne  had  a  headache,  Sir  Giles  explained,  and 
so  he  had  decided  not  to  remain  to  dinner. 

But  father,  daughter,  and  betrothed  dined  pleasantly 


THE    TUG   OF    WAR  179 

at  Overshott  Foxbrush.  And  when  the  dazzled  Cis  said 
good-night  to  the  triumphant  Polly,  the  valediction  was 
uttered  unwillingly  with  as  many  repetitions  as  there 
were  pearls  in  the  string  Miss  Overshott  wore  round  her 
firm  white  throat. 

There  was  no  gas  laid  on  at  Overshott.  Bedroom  can- 
dlesticks were  an  unabolished  institution.  As  Sir  Giles 
gave  his  daughter  hers,  he  spoke. 

"You  were  a  little  premature  in  your  conclusions,  my 
girl,  at  The  Sabines  to-day.  I  won 't  ask  why  you  played 
that  little  comedy,  because  I  know.  .  .  .  But  you  played 
it  well  .  .  .  and  I  don't  think  Cis  will  kick  over  the 
traces  in  that  direction  again.  Nor  do  I  think" — the 
Colonel  cleared  his  throat  rather  awkwardly — ' '  that  you 
are  going  to  have  Mrs.  Osborne  for  your  second  mother. 
She  is  too  clever — and  so  are  you!  Good-night,  my 
dear!" 


GAS! 

MRS.  GUDRUN'S  season  at  the  Sceptre  Theatre  was  draw- 
ing to  a  finish,  and  the  funds  of  the  Syndicate  were  in. 
the  same  condition.  Teddy  Candelish — Teddy  of  the 
cherubic  smile  and  the  golden  mustache,  constantly  de- 
scribed by  the  Theatrical  Piffer  as  the  most  ubiquitous 
of  acting-managers — sat  in  his  sanctum  before  an  Amer- 
ican roll-top  desk,  checking  off  applications  for  free  seats 
and  filing  unpaid  bills.  Gormleigh,  the  stage-director, 
balanced  himself  on  the  end  of  a  saddlebag  sofa,  chew- 
ing an  unlighted  cigar;  De  Hanna,  the  representative 
of  the  Syndicate,  was  going  over  the  books  at  a  leather- 
covered  table,  his  eyeglasses  growing  dim  in  the  attempt 
to  read  anything  beyond  deficit  in  those  neatly  kept  col- 
umns. Mrs.  Gudrun  occupied  the  easiest  chair.  Her 
feet,  beautifully  silk-stockinged  and  wonderfully  shod, 
occupied  the  next  comfortable ;  her  silken  draperies  were 
everywhere,  and  a  cigarette  was  between  her  finely  cut 
lips.  Her  feather  boa  hung  from  an  electric-globe  branch, 
and  her  flowery  diaphanous  hat,  bristling  with  diamond- 
headed  pins,  crowned  the  domelike  brow  of  a  plaster  bust 
of  the  Bard  of  Avon. 

"Well,"  said  the  manageress,  making  smoke-rings  and 
looking  at  De  Hanna,  "there's  no  putting  the  bare  fact 
to  bed !  We  've  not  pulled  off  things  as  we  had  a  right  to 
expect.  .  .  .  We've  lost  our  little  pot,  and  come  to  the 
end  of  our  resources,  eh?" 

"In  plain  terms,"  said  De  Hanna,  speaking  through' 
his  nose,  as  he  always  did  when  upon  the  subject  of 
money,  "the  Syndicate  has  run  you  for  all  the  Syndi- 

180 


GAS !  181 

cate  is  worth,  and  when  we  pay  salaries  on  Saturday  we 
shall  have" — he  did  some  figuring  with  a  lead  pencil 
on  the  back  of  a  millionaire's  request  for  gratuitous 
stalls,  and  whistled  sadly — ' '  something  like  four  hundred 
and  fifty  left  to  carry  us  through  until  the  seventeenth. ' ' 

"We  began  with  as  nice  a  little  nest-egg  as  any  man- 
agement could  wish  for,"  said  Candelish,  dropping  a 
smoking  vesta  into  the  waste-paper  basket  with  fatalistic 
unconcern.  "We  thought  The  Stone  Age  would  pay. 
I'd  my  doubts  of  a  prehistoric  drama  in  five  acts  and 
fourteen  scenes  that  couldn  't  be  produced  under  an  out- 
lay of  four  thousand  pounds,  but  we  were  overruled." 
He  veered  the  tail  of  his  eye  round  at  Mrs.  Gudrun. 
"You  and  the  Duke  were  mad  about  that  piece." 

"De  Petoburgh  saw  great  possibilities  for  me  in  it," 
said  Mrs.  Gudrun,  throwing  another  cigarette-end  at  the 
fireplace  and  missing  it.  "That  scene  where  Kaja  comes 
in  dressed  in  woad  for  battle,  and  brains  What's-his- 
name  with  her  prehistoric  stone  ax  because  he  doesn't 
want  to  fight  her,  always  thrilled  him.  He  said  I  would 
be  greater  than  Siddons  in  it,  and,  well — you  remember 
the  notices  I  got  in  the  Morning  Wkooper.  Cluffer  did 
me  justice  then,  if  he  did  turn  nasty  afterward — the 
beast!" 

' '  When  I  met  Cluffer  in  the  vestibule  on  the  first  night 
after  the  third  act,"  said  Teddy  Candelish,  "he  said  he 
was  going  home  because  the  tension  of  your  acting  was 
positively  too  great  to  bear.  He  preferred  me  to  de- 
scribe the  rest  of  the  play  to  him,  and  jotted  the  chief 
points  on  his  cuff  before  he  went.  And  I  grant  you  the 
notice  was  a  ripper,  but  it  didn't  seem  to  bring  people 
in;  and  after  playing  to  paper  for  three  weeks,  we  had 
to  put  up  the  fortnight's  notice  and  jam  The  Kiss  of 
Clytie  into  rehearsal." 

"Dad  vos  a  lofely — ach! — a  lofely  blay!"  moaned  Os- 
car Gormleigh,  casting  up  his  little  pig's  eyes  to  the 


182  GAS ! 

highly  ornamental  ceiling  of  the  managerial  sanctum. 
"Brigged  from  de  Chairman  in  de  pekinning,  as  I  told 
you,  as  all  de  goot  blays  are. ' ' 

"I  wish  the  Germans  had  stuck  to  it,  I'm  sure,"  said 
De  Hanna.  "It  always  appeared  to  me  too  much  over 
the  heads  of  ordinary  intelligent  playgoers  to  pay  worth 
a  little  damn." 

"De  dranscendental  element "  Gormleigh  was  be- 
ginning, when  Mrs.  Gudrun  cut  him  short. 

' '  I  never  cared  for  it  very  much  myself ;  but  Bob  Bols- 
over  was  dead  set  upon  my  giving  the  public  my  reading 
of  Clytie — and,  well,  you  must  recollect  the  effect  I  cre- 
ated in  that  studio  scene.  Mullekens  came  round  after- 
ward, and  brought  his  critic  with  him,  and  said  that  the 
best  French  school  of  acting  must  now  look  to  its  laurels, 
and  a  lot  more.  Mullekens  is  the  proprietor  of  the  Daily 
Tomahawk,  and  so,  of  course,  I  thought  we  were  in  for  a 
good  thing.  How  could  I  imagine  that  the  creature  of  a 
critic  would  go  home  and  make  game  of  the  whole  show  ? 
Doesn't  Mullekens  pay  him?" 

' '  Ah,  ja !  Foot  dat  gritic  's  vif  e  is  de  sister  of  de  Chair- 
man agtress  dat  blayed  Glytie  in  de  orichinal  Chairman 
broduction, ' '  put  in  Gormleigh,  whose  real  surname  was 
Gameltzch,  as  everybody  does  not  know.  "Did  I  not 
varn  you  ?  It  vas  a  gase  of  veels  vidin  veels. ' ' 

"Wheels  or  no  wheels,  Clytie  kissed  us  out  of  three 
thou.  odd,"  said  De  Hanna,  wearily  scratching  his  ear 
with  his  "Geyser"  pen,  "and  then  we  cut  our  throats 
with " 

"With  him,"  put  in  Candelish,  jerking  a  contemptu- 
ous thumb  at  the  hat-crowned  effigy  of  the  Bard  of 
Avon. 

"You  were  keen  on  my  giving  the  great  mass  of  play- 
goers a  chance  of  seeing  my  Juliet,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Gudrun  casting  a  Parthian  glance  at  the  worm  that  had 
turned. 


GAS !  183 

' '  But  they  didn  't  take  the  chance, ' '  put  in  De  Hanna, 
"and  consequently — we  fizzle  out." 

"Like  a  burst  bladder  ..."  moaned  Candelish,  who 
saw  before  him  a  weary  waste  of  months  unenlivened  by 
paid  occupation. 

"  Or  a  damp  sguib, ' '  put  in  Gormleigh. 

"Let's  have  a  sputter  before  we  expire,"  said  De 
Hanna,  with  a  momentary  revival  of  energy.  "Lots  of 
manuscripts  have  been  sent  in.  ...  Isn't  there  a  little 
domestic  drama  of  the  purely  popular  sort,  or  a  farce 
imbecile  enough  to  pay  for  production,  to  be  found  among 
'em?" 

' '  Dunno, ' '  yawled  Candelish,  tilting  his  chair. 

' '  Who  is  supposed  to  read  the  plays  that  are  sent  in  ? " 
asked  De  Hanna,  turning  his  large  Oriental  eyes  toward 
Mrs.  Gudrun. 

' '  I  read  some, ' '  said  the  lady  languidly, ' '  and  the  dogs 
get  the  rest." 

She  stretched,  and  an  overpowering  combination  of 
fashionable  perfumes,  shaken  from  her  draperies,  filled 
the  apartment.  The  three  men  sneezed  simultaneously. 
Mrs.  Gudrun  rose  with  majesty,  and  going  to  the  mantel- 
glass,  patted  her  transformation  fringe  into  form,  and 
smiled  at  the  perennially  beautiful  image  that  smiled  and 
patted  back.  Suddenly  there  was  a  whining  and  scratch- 
ing outside  the  door. 

"It's  Billy.  Let  him  in,  one  of  you,"  ordered  the 
manageress. 

All  three  men  obeyed,  clashing  their  heads  together 
smartly  at  the  portal.  De  Hanna,  with  watering  eyes, 
opened  the  door,  and  a  brindled  bull  of  surpassing  ugli- 
ness trotted  into  the  office,  carrying  a  chewed  brown 
paper  parcel  decorated  with  futile  red  seals  and  trailing 
loops  of  string.  Lying  down  in  the  center  of  the  carpet 
and  carefully  arranging  the  parcel  between  his  f orepaws, 
Billy  proceeded  to  worry  it. 


184  GAS! 

"Vot  has  de  beast  kott  dere?"  asked  Gormleigh. 

' '  Take  it  from  him  and  see ! "  said  Mrs.  Gudrun  care- 
lessly. Gormleigh 's  violet  nose  became  pale  lavender  as 
Billy,  looking  up  from  the  work  of  destruction,  emitted 
a  loud  growl. 

' '  He  understonds  every  ding  vot  you  say ! ' '  spluttered 
the  stage-manager. 

"Try  him  with  German,"  advised  De  Hanna. 

' '  Or  mit  Yiddish, ' '  retorted  Gormleigh  spitefully. 

As  De  Hanna  winced  under  the  retort,  Candelish,  who 
had  rummaged  unnoticed  in  a  drawer  for  some  moments, 
produced  a  biscuit.  Billy,  watching  out  of  the  corner  of 
his  eye,  pricked  a  ragged  ear  and  whacked  the  carpet 
with  his  muscular  tail. 

"Hee,  boy,  hee,  Billy!"  Candelish  said  seductively. 
Billy  rose  upon  his  powerful  bow-legs  and  hung  out  his 
tongue  expectantly. 

' '  Koot  old  Pillee ! ' '  uttered  Gormleigh  encouragingly. 
"Glefferoldpoy!" 

Billy  vouchsafed  the  stage-manager  not  a  glance;  his 
bloodshot  eyes  were  glued  upon  the  biscuit  as  he  stood 
over  the  brown  paper  parcel.  Then,  as  Candelish,  throw- 
ing an  expression  of  eager  voracity  into  his  countenance, 
made  believe  to  eat  the  coveted  delicacy  himself,  Billy 
made  a  step  forwards.  .  .  .  The  end  of  the  parcel  pro- 
jected from  between  his  hind-legs.  .  .  .  De  Hanna  softly 
stepped  to  the  fireplace  and  seized  the  tongs.  .  .  . 

"Poo5  boy — poo'  ol'  Billy,  then!"  coaxed  the  acting- 
manager.  He  broke  the  biscuit  with  one  inviting  snap, 
Billy  forgot  the  parcel,  and  De  Hanna  grabbed  and  got 
it.  The  next  moment  the  bull,  realizing  his  loss,  pinned 
the  representative  of  the  Syndicate  by  the  leg. 

"Dash — dash — dash!  Take  the  dash  brute  off,  some- 
body!" shrieked  De  Hanna. 

There  was  a  brief  scene  of  confusion.  Then,  as  Billy 
retired  under  a  corner  table  with  a  mouthful  of  ravished 


GAS !  185 

tweed,  "He's  torn  a  piece  out  of  your  trow-trows,  old 
man,"  Candelish  remarked  sympathetically. 

' '  He  might  have  torn  all  the  veins  out  of  my  leg ! ' '  De 
Hanna  gasped. 

"Den,"  said  Gormleigh,  chuckling,  "you  would  haf 
been  Kosher." 

But  Mrs.  Gudrun  was  deeply  disappointed  in  Billy. 
"Letting  you  off  for  a  bit  of  cloth!"  she  said.  "Why, 
the  breed  are  famous  for  their  bite.  He  ought  to  have 
taken  a  piece  of  flesh  clean  out — I  shall  never  believe  in 
that  dog  again!"  She  swept  over  to  Gormleigh,  who 
was  busy  disentangling  the  lengths  of  chewed  string  and 
removing  the  tatters  of  brown  paper  from  Billy's  treas- 
ure-trove. It  proved  to  be  a  green-covered,  rather  bulky 
volume  of  typescript.  A  red-bordered  label  gummed  on 
the  cover  announced  its  title : 

"  MAGGS  AT  MAEGATE 

A  SEASIDE  FARCE, 
IN  THREE  WHIFFS  OF  OZONE." 

"What  funny  fool  has  written  this?"  snorted  the 
manageress. 

' '  De  name  of  de  author.  .  .  .  Ach  so !  De  name  of  de 
author  is  Slump — Ferdinand  Slump." 

"I  know  the  chap,  or  of  him.  He's  a  business  man 
who  owns  a  half  share  in  some  chemical  gasworks  at 
Hackney,  and  does  comic  literature  in  off  hours.  He 
writes  the  weekly  theatrical  page  of  Tickles,"  said  De 
Hanna,  "and " 

"Dickies  is  a  stupid  halfpenny  brint,"  said  Gorm- 
leigh, "dat  sdeals  all  its  chokes  from  de  Chairman  ba- 
bers." 

"Really?  It  struck  me  that  there  must  be  some  ex- 
isting reason,"  said  Candelish,  "for  the  wonderfully 


186  GAS ! 

level  flow  of  dullness  the  publication  manages  to  main- 
tain  " 

"Well,  I  suppose  somebody  is  going  to  read  this  farce, 
since  that  is  what  he  calls  it,  by  this  Slump,  since  that  is 
what  he  calls  himself,"  said  Mrs.  Gudrun,  removing  her 
hat  from  Shakespeare  and  pinning  it  on. 

"Certainly.  De  Hanna,  as  the  Representative  of  the 
Syndicate "  began  Candelish  eagerly. 

"Pardon  me.  As  acting-manager,"  objected  De 
Hanna,  "you,  Candelish,  have  the  prior  claim." 

"Didn't  you  say  you  were  going  out  of  town  to-night, 
Gormleigh  ? ' '  interrupted  Mrs.  Gudrun,  who  had  stuck  in 
all  her  hatpins,  and  was  now  putting  on  her  gloves. 

"Choost  for  a  liddle  plow,"  admitted  Gormleigh. 
"Dere  is  a  cheab  night  drain  to  Stinkton-on-Sea,  sdard- 
ing  from  de  Great  Northern  at  dwelve  dirty.  I  shall 
sleep  in  de  gorridor  gombardmend,  oond  breakfast  at  a 
goffee  and  vinkle  stall  on  de  peach  to-morrow  morgen. 
By  vich  I  haf  poot  von  night  to  pay  for  at  de  hotel." 
His  bearded  lips  parted  in  a  childlike  smile  of  delight. 
' '  My  vif e  goes  not  vid  me, ' '  he  said,  and  smiled  again. 

' '  Then  take  this ! ' '  said  Mrs.  Gudrun,  turning  Slump 's 
farce  over.  "Report  on  it  after  the  show  on  Monday." 
And  she  rustled  from  the  office  on  billows  of  silk,  at- 
tended by  clouds  of  perfume,  the  despised  Billy,  and 
the  assiduous  Candelish.  The  stage-manager  swore.  De 
Hanna,  concealing  the  solution  in  the  continuity  of  his 
tweeds  with  a  bicycle  trouser-clip,  grinned. 

' '  A  little  solid  reading  will  steady  you  down,  Gummy, 
and  if  my  experience  of  Slump  goes  for  anything — 
you've  got  it  there.  But  you'll  report  on  Monday,  as 
Her  Nibs  ordered.  If  you've  not  read  it,  look  out  for 

squalls  on  Monday  night!" 

******* 

"Potstausend!  Hof  I  read  dot  farce!"  gasped  Gorm- 
leigh on  the  night  of  Monday.  ' '  Schwerlich !  I  hof  read 


GAS !  187 

him  tvice.  Once  from  de  beginning  to  de  end,  oond 
akain  from  de  end  to  de  beginning. ' '  His  face  assumed 
an  expression  of  anguish,  and  the  veins  on  his  bald  fore- 
head stood  out  as  the  thick  drops  gathered  there.  "I 
cannot  make  heads  or  dails  of  him.  .  .  .  He  is  gram- 
jam  with  chokes,  poot  I  cannot  lof  at  dem ;  his  situations 
are  sgreaming,  poot  I  cannot  sgream.  De  tears  day 
komm  instead.  .  .  .  Dat  vork  is  vonderful  ...  it 
should  one  day  be  broduced,  poot  in  de  kreat  National 
School  Theatre  for  authors  oond  actors  dot  de  gountry 
hos  not  yet  founded,  to  brove  to  bubils  vot  is  not  a 
farce " 

"Yet  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  we  did  the  piece 
here,"  said  Teddy  Candelish.  "Slump,  the  author,  has 
been  talking  over  Her  Nibs,  and  as  he  would  let  Maggs 
at  Margate  go  for  nothing  down,  find  three  hundred 
pounds  toward  the  production,  and  merely  take  a  nomi- 
nal sixty  per  cent.,  the  chances  are  that  you'll  be  re- 
hearsing before  Tuesday.  Hullo ! ' '  for  the  stage-manager 
had  reeled  heavily  against  him. 

"Ich  bin  unwohl.  ...  It  is  dose  undichested  chokes 
of  Slumps  I  haf  hodd  on  my  gonstitution  since  I  read 
dot  farce.  Oond  now  you  komm  mit  anodder, "  Gorm- 
leigh  groaned. 

' '  Here 's  Her  Nibs  with  Slump, ' '  said  Candelish,  with 
a  grin;  and  Mrs.  Gudrun,  in  the  Renaissance  robes  of 
Juliet,  swept  into  the  green  room  with  a  little  grinning, 
long-haired  man  in  an  imitation  astrachan-collared  over- 
coat over  crumpled  evening  dress — a  little  man  who 
gave  a  large  hand,  with  mourning  nails,  familiarly  to 
Candelish,  and  nodded  cavalierly  when  Gormleigh  was 
introduced.  Slump  was  to  read  his  play  to  the  man- 
ageress and  her  staff  after  the  performance  that  night. 

Read  his  play  Slump  did,  and  Cimmerian  gloom  gath- 
ered upon  the  countenances  of  his  listeners  as  the  first 
act  dragged  to  a  close.  Slump  put  the  typescript  down 


188  GAS ! 

on  the  supper-table  and  looked  round ;  Gormleigh  's  head 
had  sunk  upon  his  folded  arms.  Heavy  snores  testified 
to  the  depth  and  genuineness  of  his  slumbers.  The  coun- 
tenances of  De  Hanna  and  Candelish  expressed  the  most 
profound  dejection,  while  the  intellectual  half  of  Mrs. 
Gudrun 's  celebrated  countenance  had  temporarily  van- 
ished behind  her  upper  lip. 

"What  do  you  say  to  that?"  Slump  asked,  quite  un- 
dismayed by  these  signs  of  weariness  on  the  part  of  his 
listeners.  Mrs.  Gudrun  came  back  to  answer  him. 

' '  I  say  that  it 's  the  longest  funeral  I  've  ever  been  at. 
Open  another  bottle  of  the  Boy,  Teddy,  and  wake  up, 
Gormleigh." 

"I  hof  not  been  asleep,"  explained  Gormleigh. 

"I  wish  I  had,"  sighed  De  Hanna.  "The  fact  is," 
he  continued,  prompted  by  a  glance  from  Mrs.  Gudrun, 
"that  your  play  don't  do." 

Slump  maintained,  in  the  face  of  this  discouragement, 
a  smiling  front. 

"Won't  do,  eh?" 

"Won't  do  for  nuts,"  said  De  Hanna  firmly.  "No- 
body could  possibly  laugh  at  it,"  he  continued. 

"It  is  too  tarn  tismal,"  put  in  Gormleigh. 

"But  if  I  prove  to  you  that  people  can  laugh  at  it, 
what  then?"  queried  the  undismayed  Slump.  He  took 
from  a  fob  pocket-book  a  newspaper  cutting  and  handed 
it  across  the  supper-table  to  De  Hanna.  The  cutting 
was  headed 

"OZONE  AT  THE  BALL," 

and  ran  thus : 

"  'Will  you  take  a  little  refreshment?' 
"  'Thank  you,  I  have  just  had  a  sniff  of  ozone.' 
"Question  and  answer  at  the  ball  given  last  night  in 
aid  of  the  Hospital,  Square,  at  the  Royal 


GAS !  189 

Rooms,  Kensington.  For,  besides  champagne,  ozone  was 
laid  on.  After  every  dance  Dr.  Blank,  head  of  the  Hos- 
pital, wheeled  about  the  hall  an  appliance  in  which,  by 
electrical  action,  pure  oxygen  was  converted  into  the  in- 
vigorating element  of  mountain  or  seaside  air,  greatly  to 
the  purifying  and  enlivening  of  the  atmosphere  of  the 
ballroom. ' ' 

' '  My  firm  supplies  the  gas  used  in  the  treatment  of  the 
patients  at  that  hospital,"  said  Slump.  "It's  a  turnover 
of  ten  thousand  per  annum.  We're  ready  to  lay  it  on 
at  the  theater,  and  give  the  playgoers  genuine  ozone  with 
their  evening's  entertainment.  As  for  the  farce,  I  don't 
count  it  Al  quality,  but  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  be 
acted  and  laughed  at,  and  I  'm  going  to  bring  chemistry 
in  to  help  me.  Think  what  an  advertisement  for  the 
hoardings:  'Real  Ozone  Wafted  Over  the  Footlights,' 
'Sea  Air  in  the  Stalls  and  Gallery!'  " 

"By  thunder!  it's  a  whacking  notion!"  cried  Can- 
delish. 

' '  Colossal ! ' '  exclaimed  De  Hanna,  taking  fire  at  last. 

"Foot  vill  de  beoble  loff?"  asked  Gormleigh. 

"Ah,  yes!  Will  they  stand  your  farce  even  with  an 
ozone  accompaniment?"  doubted  Mrs.  Gudrun. 

"I've  a  machine  downstairs  in  the  stage-door  office," 
said  Slump  calmly.  "Will  you  try  the  first  act  over 
again — with  gas  ? ' ' 

Gormleigh  groaned,  but  the  other  three  nodded  ac- 
quiescence ;  and  the  men  in  charge  of  the  electrical  oxy- 
gen-generator received  instructions  to  bring  the  machine 
upstairs. 
******* 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!" 
"Haw,  haw,  haw!" 

"Ach,  it  is  too  funny  for  anydings!"  This  from 
Gormleigh,  rocking  in  his  chair,  and  mopping  his  stream- 


190  GAS ! 

ing  eyes  with  a  red  silk  handkerchief.  "Ach,  ha,  ha, 
ha!" 

Mrs.  Gudrun  held  up  her  jeweled  hands  for  mercy. 
The  laughing  man  who  worked  the  machine  stopped 
pumping,  the  laughing  author  ceased  to  read,  Billy  the 
bulldog,  who  had  been  grinning  from  ear  to  ear,  wiped 
a  wet  nose  on  his  mistress's  gown  and  sat  down  panting. 

"How  the  deuce,"  gasped  De  Hanna,  "can  oxygen 
make  a  stupid  farce  a  funny  one?  I  can't  understand 
it,  for  the  life  of  me. ' ' 

"Because,"  replied  Slump,  with  brevity  and  clear- 
ness, "that's  my  trade  secret,  and  I  don't  mean  to  give 
it  away.  Well,  does  Maggs  go  on,  or  do  I  take  it  to  an- 
other management  ? ' ' 

The  general  assent  was  flattering  in  its  unanimity. 
Maggs  at  Margate  went  into  rehearsal  at  the  ' '  Sceptre ' ' 
next  day,  and  in  a  week  was  presented  to  the  public. 
We  refer  you  to  the  critiques  published  in  the  Daily 
Tomahawk,  the  Yelper,  and  other  morning  prints : 

"It  seems  as  though  the  good  old  days  were  come 
again.  .  .  .  Peals  of  irresistible  laughter  rang  through 
the  crowded  theater  as  the  side-splitting  story  of  Maggs 
was  unfolded.  The  audience  laughed,  the  orchestra 
laughed,  the  actors  themselves  were  infected  by  the  gen- 
eral merriment. ' ' 

"Mr.  Slump  is  a  public  benefactor.  When  'down,'  a 
dose  of  him  will  be  found  to  act  like  magic.  The  man- 
agement's happy  notion  of  supplying  the  theater  with 
real  ozone  adds  not  a  little  to  the  pleasure  of  the  enter- 
tainment. ' ' 

And  so  forth,  and  so  forth.  Booking  was  immense, 
the  box-office  and  libraries  were  besieged  with  applicants 
eager  to  breathe  the  genuine  sea  air  wafted  over  the  foot- 
lights at  the  "Sceptre."  The  treasury  boxes  had  to  be 


GAS !  191 

carried  to  the  office  at  night  by  two  of  the  strongest 
commissionaires. 

' '  Slump  has  a  soft  snap, ' '  said  De  Hanna,  chewing  his 
Geyser  pen  rapturously  as  he  went  over  the  books. 
"Sixty  per  cent,  of  the  gross  receipts  in  author's  fees, 
and  we  're  averaging  two  thousand  a  week  since  we  went 
in  for  daily  matinees.  Then  the  Transatlantic  Trust  is 
running  the  play  in  New  York  to  phenomenal  business, 
and  we've  planted  it  out  for  the  Colonies,  while  France 
and  Germany " 

"Id  vas  from  Chairmany  dat  de  leading  itea  of  de 
blay  was  orichinally  sdolen,"  said  Gormleigh,  who  had 
blossomed  out  in  new  clothes,  a  red  necktie,  and  a  cat's- 
eye  pin. 

"Leading  idea  of  the  play  is  the  Ozone,"  said  De 
Hanna;  "and  as  Slump's  firm  holds  the  patent  for  the 
electro-oxygen  generator,  and  manufactures  the  oxygen 
used  in  the  theater " 

"Dey  call  it  bure  oxygen,  poot  it  is  not  dat,"  said 
Gormleigh,  laying  his  finger  to  his  nose.  "It  is  a  motch 
cheaber  gombound,  I  give  you  my  vort. ' ' 

"What?"  De  Hanna  came  closer,  and  his  Oriental 
eyes  gleamed.  "If  that's  true,  and  we  could  manufac- 
ture and  generate  it  for  ourselves,  we — we  could  buy  up 
every  rotten  play  we  come  across — there 's  heaps  of  them 
to  be  had,  Heaven  knows — and  run  'em  for  nuts.  What 
is  the  stuff?" 

"It  is  nitrous  oxide,"  said  Gormleigh,  "gommonly 
known  as  loffing  kass — and  I  hof  a  friend,  a  Chairman 

chemist — dat  vill Hoosh!"  He  laid  his  finger  to 

his  nose  with  an  air  of  secrecy  as  Mrs.  Gudrun  swept  into 
the  office,  enveloped  in  her  usual  clouds  of  silk  and  per- 
fume. Candelish  was  not  with  her,  but  Slump  and  Billy 
followed  at  her  heels. 

' '  Of  course,  it  must  be  admitted,  Maggs  is  a  phenom- 
enal success,"  she  was  saying,  "and  we're  making  money 


192  GAS ! 

hand  over  hand;  but  the  part  of  'Angelina' — though 
Cluffer  says  no  French  comedy  actress  of  any  age  or  pe- 
riod could  act  it  as  I  do — does  not  give  me  proper  op- 
portunities. Mr.  Slump  thinks  with  me."  She  smiled 
dazzlingly  upon  the  enamored  little  man.  "And  he  has 
written  a  tragedy  in  blank  verse — The  Poisoned  Smile — 
which  we  mean  to  produce  as  soon  as  the  run  is  over." 
She  swept  out  again  with  her  following,  and  De  Hanna 
and  Gormleigh  exchanged  a  wink  of  partnership. 

"A  tragedy  in  blank  verse  by  Slump.  .  .  .  Phew!" 
De  Hanna  whistled.  "They  won't  want  laughing-gas 
for  that.  ...  As  for  us,  we  go  snacks  in  biz.  I'll  find 
the  Syndicate  and  the  theater." 

' '  Oond  I  de  blays,  de  sdage-management,  oond  de  kass. 
De  Chairman  chemist  friend  I  dold  you  of,  I  hof  vith 
him  already  a  gontract  made." 

"Perhaps  it  is  a  bit  shady/'  said  De  Hanna  punctil- 
iously, ' '  to  exploit  an  idea  that  really  is  Slump 's  prop- 
erty. ..." 

"De  chokes  in  Slump's  comic  baber  he  sdole  from  a 
Chairman  orichinal, ' '  said  Gormleigh  pachydermatously. 
"It  is  nodding  poot  tid  for  tad ! ' ' 


AIR 

"  Sweet  are  the  uses  of  advertisement." 

The  Professional  Shakespeare. 

"I  BELIEVE  in  the  value  of  an  ad.,"  said  Mrs.  Gudrun 
one  night  at  the  Paris  Grand  Opera,  the  Sceptre  Theatre, 
London,  being  temporarily  closed  pending  a  new  produc- 
tion. "Sarah  believes  in  it,  too — and  that's  another  of 
the  remarkable  points  of  resemblance  between  us.  And 
for  the  sake  of  a  puff,  I  'm  willing  to  do  all  that  a  woman 
can." 

"Can't  do  more,"  said  De  Petoburgh,  shaking  his 
head  owlishly.  "Can't  possibly  do  more." 

' '  Shut  up,  De  Peto.  That  woman 's  ready  to  bite  you 
for  talking  through  her  big  aria,"  commanded  Mrs.  Gud- 
run, with  a  slight  glance  of  imperial  indifference  towards 
the  infuriated  prima  donna.  She  dropped  her  opera- 
glasses  into  the  orchestra  with  a  crash,  narrowly  shaving 
the  kettle-drums,  and  causing  the  cymbal-player  to  miss 
his  cue,  as  she  continued:  "But,  though  I'm  generally 
keen  to  see  the  pay-end  of  a  big  notion,  this  idea  of 
Bobby  Bolsover  's  won 't  do  for  macaroons.  Not  that  I'm 
lacking  in  what  the  Americans  call  horse-grit — wasn't  I 
on  De  Brin's  automobile  when  he  won  the  Paris-Rouen 
race  with  his  Gohard  Cup  Defender  in  nineteen-three  ? 
That  was  one  hairbreadth  escape,  from  the  revolver  shot 
that  started  us — you  remember  Bobby  put  in  ball  cart- 
ridge by  mistake — to  the  three  flying  kilometers  at  the 
finish,  which  we  did  on  one  wheel,  as  the  brakes  refused 
to  act.  And  I've  hung  by  one  coupling  over  a  raging 

193 


194  AIR 

American  river  in  my  own  drawing-room  Pullman  sa- 
loon. But  when  it  comes  to  dangling  in  a  little  basket 
that  weighs  next  to  nothing  from  a  bag  of  gas  that 
weighs  nothing  at  all — I'm  not  taking  any,  and  I  don't 
care  who  knows  it.  A  captive  balloon's  another  thing. 
You're  cabled  and  sand-bagged  and  what  not,  and,  un- 
less you  jump  out,  nothing  can  happen  to  you.  But 

Do  see  who's  knocking  at  the  door!" 

It  was  a  uniformed  and  epauletted  functionary  con- 
veying the  polite  intimation  of  the  management  that 
Madame  and  her  party  must  positively  maintain  silence 
during  the  performance,  or  make  themselves  the  trouble 
to  depart! 

"Tell  him  we'd  had  enough  and  were  just  going!" 
commanded  Mrs.  Gudrun.  She  rose,  and,  followed  by 
the  Duke,  Bobby  Bolsover,  and  Teddy  Candelish — most 
active  and  ubiquitous  of  business  managers,  sailed  out 
of  the  box,  knocking  over  a  fauteuil  and  carrying  a  foot- 
stool away  upon  the  surging  billows  of  her  train.  ' '  Calls 
herself  an  artist!"  she  said,  in  reference  to  the  prima 
donna,,  upon  whose  trills  and  roulades  an  enraptured 
audience  hung  breathless  and  enthralled ;  ' '  and  lets  her- 
self be  put  about  by  a  little  thing  like  that!  "Where's 
her  artistic  absorption,  I  should  like  to  know.  Why,  I  've 
studied  Juliet  in  the  drawing-room  where  Bobby  and 
De  Petoburgh  were  having  a  rat-hunt  under  the  tables 
and  things,  and  what  difference  did  it  make  to  my  con- 
ception of  the  part  ?  Not  a  sou.  And  she  was  a  shrimp- 
seller  at  Nice!  They  all  have  that  voce  squillante  and 
those  thick  flat  ankles  and  those  rolling  black  eyes  like 
treacle-balls.  Let's  go  and  have  some  supper  at  the 
Cafe  Paris." 

Over  American  grilled  lobster  and  quails  Georges 
Sand,  Bobby  Bolsover 's  grand  notion  for  an  advertise- 
ment, cropped  up  again.  One  may  explain  that  it  con- 
sisted in  the  suggestion  that  Mrs.  Gudrun  and  party 


AIR  195 

should  electrify  Paris,  and  subsequently  London,  by 
traveling  per  motor-airship  from  St.  Cloud,  rounding 
the  Eiffel  Tower  in  emulation  of  the  immortal  Santos, 
and  returning  to  the  Highfliers'  Club  airship  station  at' 
the  Pare  upon  the  conclusion  of  the  feat.  A  friend  of 
De  Petoburgh's,  a  distinguished  member  of  the  High- 
fliers' Club,  would  undertake  to  lend  the  airship — a 
newly  completed  vessel,  with  basket  accommodation  for 
three.  This  philanthropist  did  not  propose  to  share  the 
notoriety  by  joining  the  trip,  and  it  was  to  be  distinctly 
understood  that  De  Petoburgh  was  to  be  responsible  for 
any  expenses  involved. 

And  Bobby  Bolsover,  brimming,  as  usual,  with  genu- 
ine British  bravery  and  brandy-and-soda,  was  ready  to 
assume  command. 

"You  know  the  principle  of  a  motor?"  Bobby  de- 
manded, as  the  supper  proceeded,  and  a  collection  of 
champagne  corks,  gradually  amassed  on  the  corner  of 
the  table,  assumed  proportions  favorable  to  purposes  of 
demonstration. 

' '  Candelish  knows  the  principle  of  a  motor, ' '  said  De 
Petoburgh.  "Never  could  learn  myshelf.  Too  much 
borror ! ' ' 

' '  One  may  say  that  there  is  gasoline  in  a  receptacle, ' ' 
began  Teddy.  "Air  passing  through  becomes  charged 
with  gas,  and  comes  out  ready  to  explode.  Then " 

' '  To  explode, ' '  agreed  De  Petoburgh ; ' '  absorutely  cor- 
rec'  dennifishion,  by  Ringo!" 

' '  Don 't  mind  De  Peto :  he 's  in  for  one  of  his  old  at- 
tacks, ' '  said  Mrs.  Gudrun.  ' '  His  legs  have  been  all  over 
the  place  since  breakfast.  Well  ? ' ' 

"You  give  a  twirl  to  a  crank,"  said  Bobby  Bolsover. 

' '  Down  goes  the  piston, ' '  continued  Teddy. 

"Down  go  her  pistol,"  nodded  De  Petoburgh. 

"And  the  dashed  thing  begins  working  automati- 
cally, ' '  exclaimed  Bobby  Bolsover.  De  Petoburgh  balked 


196  AIR 

at  the  six-syllabled  hedge.  "Now,  an  airship  is  an  ex- 
ample of " 

"The  effectiveness  of  an  aerial  propeller  driven  by  a 
petrol  motor, ' '  put  in  Teddy. 

' '  Jusso, ' '  said  De  Petoburgh.    ' '  Jusso. ' ' 

' '  There  is,  practically  speaking,  no  danger  whatever, ' ' 
pursued  Bobby  Bolsover,  warming  to  the  subject,  "that 
does  not  attend  other  popular  pursuits.  You  may  be 
thrown  from  a  horse,  or  tumble  off  a  coach-box " 

"Did  once,"  said  De  Petoburgh,  smiling  in  sad  retro- 
spection. 

' '  Or  you  may  blow  up  in  a  motor, ' '  went  on  Bobby. 

"But  in  either  case,"  said  Mrs.  Gudrun,  with  point, 
' '  one  is  on  the  ground,  not  hanging  between  heaven  and 
earth,  like  What  's-his-name  's  coffin. ' ' 

"Brarro!"  exclaimed  De  Petoburgh.  "Encore! 
Bis!" 

1 '  Permit  me  to  put  in,  dear  lady, ' '  said  Teddy  Candel- 
ish,  with  his  best  professional  manner,  ' '  that  if  you  fall 
out  of  an  airship,  you  eventually  finish  on  the  ground ! ' ' 

"Under,"  gloomily  interpolated  De  Petoburgh.  "Un- 
der." 

' '  And,  further, ' '  said  Bobby  Bolsover, ' '  the  guide-rope 
is  in  connection  with  the  ground  all  the  time.  Seventy 
feet  of  it,  trailing  like " 

"Snakes!"  said  the  irrepressible  De  Petoburgh,  with 
a  glassy  stare. 

"And,"  went  on  Bobby,  "we  will  have  four  picked 
men  from  the  Highfliers '  Club  Grounds  to  run  beside  the 
guide-rope  all  the  way  and  back. ' ' 

"Thus  combining  personal  advertisement,"  said  Ted- 
dy Candelish,  "with  physical  integrity." 

Mrs.  Gudrun  permitted  her  classical  features  to 
soften.  "Now  you're  talking!"  the  lady  said.  She 
smiled  through  the  bottom  of  her  champagne-glass  as 
Teddy,  bowed  in  acknowledgment  of  the  compliment,  and 


AIR  197 

the  trip  was  arranged  forthwith.  Thanks  to  the  discre- 
tion of  Teddy  Candelish,  the  preparations  were  kept  so 
profoundly  secret  that  all  Paris  was  on  the  alert  when 
the  eventful  morning  dawned.  The  Highfliers'  Club 
Grounds  were  literally  besieged,  and  the  intending  sky- 
navigators  fought  their  way  to  the  aerodrome  containing 
their  vessel  through  a  surging  throng  of  scientists,  edi- 
tors, journalists,  dandies,  actresses,  photographers,  pick- 
pockets, and  politicians. 

' '  Regular  scrimmage — what  ? ' '  panted  Bobby  Bolsover, 
as,  bare-headed  and  disheveled,  he  reached  the  private 
side-door  of  the  balloon-house. 

""We  ought  to  have  slept  here,"  said  Mrs.  Gudrun, 
straightening  her  hat-brim  as  the  breathless  men  col- 
lected her  hairpins. 

"Nothing  but  perches  to  sleep  on,"  objected  Bobby 
Bolsover,  indicating  the  skeleton  arrangements  of  the 
vast  interior. 

Mrs.  Gudrun,  whose  eye  soared  with  Bobby's,  would 
have  changed  color  had  the  feat  been  possible. 

"Do  we  really  climb  up  that  awful  ladder  to  get  on 
board?"  she  inquired.  "I  have  more  nerve  than  any 
woman  I  know;  but  I  wasn't  educated  as  an  acrobat. 
J'en  suis  tout  baba,  Bobby,  that  you  should  have  let  us 
all  in  for  a  thing  like  this.  We  're  planted,  however,  and 
must  go  through.  What  crowds  of  smart  women !  What 
on  earth  has  brought  them  out  so  early  in  the  morning? 
It  must  have  got  about  that  I  'm  going  to  be  killed ! ' ' 
She  gulped  and  clutched  Teddy.  ' '  I  c-can  't  go  on  in  this 
scene!  Make  an  apology — make  an  apology  and  say 
I  'm  ill.  I  am  ill— horribly ! ' ' 

"I  feel  far  from  frisky,"  said  Bobby  Bolsover  can- 
didly. "Gout  all  last  night  in  the  head  and  eyes,  and — 
every  limb,  in  fact,  that  one  relies  upon  in  steering  a  mo- 
tor. But,  of  course,  I  am  ready  to  undertake  the  helm — 
unless  anybody  else  would  like  to  volunteer?" 


198  AIR 

He  looked  at  Teddy,  whose  eye  was  clear,  whose  cheek 
was  blooming,  whose  golden  curls  encroached  upon  a 
forehead  unlined  with  the  furrows  of  personal  appre- 
hension. 

"W-what  do  you  say,  Teddy?"  gasped  Mrs.  Gudrun. 

"I  deeply  regret.  ...  It  is  imperatively  necessary, 
dear  lady,"  said  Teddy  glibly,  "that  in  your  absolute 
interests  I  should  be  at  the  'Fritz'  at  twelve.  The  Paris 
representatives  of  the  Daily  Yelper,  the  Morning 
Whooper,  and  the  Greenroom  Rag,  have  appointed  that 
hour  to  receive  particulars  of  your  start;  three  Berlin 
correspondents,  one  from  Nice,  and  the  editors  of  the 
Journal  Rigolo  and  the  Vie  Patachon  are  to  hole  in  ten 
minutes  later ;  and  there  will  be  thousands  of  telegrams 
to  open  and  answer.  You  know  that  the  Syndicate  of 
the  Escurial  Palace  of  Varieties  have  actually  tendered 
to  secure  the  turn.  Therefore,  though  my  heart  will 
make  the  voyage  in  your  company,  I — cannot. ' ' 

Blue-eyed  Teddy  melted  into  thin  air.  Mrs.  Gudrun, 
looking  older  than  a  professional  beauty  has  any  right 
to  look,  surveyed  her  companions  with  a  hollow  gaze  of 
despair,  while  outside  the  aerodrome  Paris  roared  and 
waited.  Bobby,  as  green  as  jade,  in  a  complete  suit  of 
motor  armor,  goggles  included,  leaned  limply  against  the 
ladder  that  led  upwards  to  the  platform  of  the  aero- 
drome. De  Petoburgh,  in  foul-weather  yachting  kit,  his 
glass  fixed  in  his  bloodshot  left  eye  by  the  little  mechan- 
ical contrivance  that  keeps  it  frpm  tumbling,  looked  back. 
That  debilitated  nobleman,  though  shaky,  was  game  to 
the  backbone. 

"I  can't  drive  a  motor,  Bolsover,"  he  said  quite  dis- 
tinctly, "but  I  can  drive  you.  Will  you — oblige  me — 
by  climbing  up  that  ladder?  We  follow.  After  you, 
dear  lady!" 

And  the  three  negotiated  the  giddy  ascent.  Upon  the 
platform  they  found  the  owner  of  the  airship  and  the 


AIR  199 

four  workmen  who,  under  promise  of  reward  and  threat 
of  punishment,  were  to  attend  the  guide-rope.  The  air- 
ship itself,  a  vast  sausage-shaped  silk  bag  of  hydrogen, 
from  which  depended  by  rubber-sheathed  piano  wires  a 
framework  of  proven  bamboo  supporting  three  baskets 
— one  forward,  one  amidships,  and  one  aft — hovered 
over  the  heads  of  the  three  depressed  adventurers  like 
a  shapeless  embodiment  of  adverse  Fate.  And  Paris 
was  growing  impatient. 

"Tell  'em  to  stick  to  the  guide-rope,  De  Croqueville, 
for  their  lives,"  urged  Bobby  feverishly,  squeezing  the 
hands  of  the  owner  of  the  machine.  "Give  it  'em  in 
their  own  lingo ;  my  French  isn  't  fluent  to-day.  They  're 
not  to  trust  to  my  steering,  but  just  tow  us  to  the  Tower 
and  back." 

De  Croqueville  squeezed  back,  and  embraced  Bobby  on 
both  cheeks.  "My  brave,  my  very  dear,  rely  upon  me. 
Madame" — he  kissed  the  jeweled  knuckles  of  Mrs.  Gud- 
run — "all  Paris  is  assembled  to  behold  the  most  beauti- 
ful woman  prove  herself  also  to  be  of  the  most  brave. 
M.  le  Due, ' '  he  saluted  De  Petoburgh  distantly,  and  then 
cordially  shook  hands,  ' '  I  am  as  kin  a  sportsman  as  how 
you.  I  have  plank  my  egg — my  oof — a  thousand  francs 
you  circulate  the  Tour  Eiffel,  in  spite  of  the  wind,  which 
blows  from  the  wrong  quarter.  Adieu!" 

' '  Blows  from  the  wrong  quarter ! ' '  gasped  Bobby  Bol- 
sover.  The  eyeglass  of  De  Petoburgh  turned  in  his  di- 
rection, and  he  immediately  climbed  the  forward  ladder 
and  got  into  the  steersman 's  creaking  basket,  and  grasped 
the  wheel  with  an  awful  sinking  immediately  below  the 
heart.  .  .  .  The  Duke  helped  Mrs.  Gudrun  to  assume 
the  central  position,  and  got  in  astern.  Just  before  the 
starting  word  was  given  and  the  great  doors  of  the  aero- 
drome rolled  apart  in  their  steel  grooves,  he  leaned  over 
to  De  Croqueville,  addressing  that  gentleman  in  his  own 
language : 


200  AIR 

"One  supposes  she" — he  alluded  to  the  vessel — "is — 
sea — I  mean  air- worthy — eh,  my  friend?" 

De  Croqueville  shot  up  his  eyebrows  and  spread  his 
hands. 

"One  supposes.  .  .  .  Truly,  dear  friend,  I  know 
not!  .  .  .  The  vessel  is  newly  complete — this  is  what 
in  English  you  call  the  try-trip.  That  is  why  I  hedge 
my  bet.  One  thousand  francs  you  round  the  Tour  Eiffel 
and  return  uninjure — two  thousand  you  do  not  return 
uninjure — whether  you  round  the  Tour  or  no.  Adieu- 
dieu!" 

The  electric  signal  rang.  The  colossal  doors  groaned 
apart.  The  four  workmen  scuttled  down  the  ladders 
like  frightened  mice,  seized  the  guide-rope,  and  towed 
the  airship  out  of  dock.  Paris  waved  handkerchiefs, 
cheered.  Bobby  Bolsover,  ghastly  behind  his  goggles, 
pressed  the  pedal  and  manipulated  the  wheel.  The  en- 
gine throbbed,  the  tail-shaft  screw  revolved.  The  adven- 
turers had  started. 

"Qui-quite  nice,"  gulped  Mrs.  Gudrun  tremulously, 
as  the  keen  wind  toyed  with  her  silk  veil  and  fluttered 
her  fur  boa. 

' '  She  pitches, ' '  said  De  Petoburgh  briefly.  ' '  Keep  her 
head  to  it,  Bolsover. ' ' 

There  was  a  sickening  moment  as  the  airship  mounted 
obliquely  upward.  .  .  .  Then  a  tug  at  the  guide-rope 
brought  her  nose  down,  pointing  to  the  sea  of  fluttering 
handkerchiefs  beneath.  Mrs.  Gudrun  groaned  and  clung 
to  the  sides  of  her  padded  basket.  De  Petoburgh 
swore. 

"I  can't — manage  her.  My — my  nerve  has  gone. 
Let's  put  about  and  take  her  back  to  dock  again," 
gasped  Bobby. 

"For — for  Heaven's  sake,  do!"  groaned  Mrs.  Gudrun. 
But  again  that  new  voice  spake  from  the  blue  lips  of  De 
Petoburgh,  and 


AIR  201 

"  I  've  lived  like  a  dashed  blackguard,  but  I  'm  not  go- 
ing to  die  like  a  cowardly  cad.  Curtain's  up — go  through 
with  the  show.  Bolsover,  you  bragging,  white-livered 
idiot,  you  can  steer  an  electric  launch  and  drive  a  motor- 
car. If  I'd  ever  learned  to  do  either,  I'd  take  your 
place.  But  as  I  can 't — go  ahead,  and  keep  on  as  I  direct, 
or  I  '11  shoot  you  through  your  empty  skull  with  this  re- 
volver"— the  click  of  the  weapon  came  stimulatingly  to 
the  ears  of  the  scared  helmsman — "and  swear  I  went 
mad  and  wasn  't  responsible.  They — they  'd  believe  me ! 
Mabel,  if  you  sit  tight  and  go  through  with  this,  I'll 
stand  you  that  thousand-guinea  tiara  you  liked  at  Al- 
phonse's,  if  we — when  we  get  safe  to  ground.  Now, 
Bolsover,  drive  on,  or  take  the  consequences!" 

Perhaps  the  familiar  terms  employed  restored  Bobby 
to  the  use  of  his  suspended  faculties.  Certain  it  is  that 
the  airship  began  to  forge  steadily  ahead  at  the  rate  of 
some  twenty  miles  an  hour — but  not  absolutely  in  the 
direction  of  the  vast  spidery  erection  of  metal  which 
was  its  destined  goal.  It  skimmed  in  the  direction  of 
the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  keeping  at  so  lofty  an  altitude  that 
of  the  end  of  the  guide-rope  merely  a  length  of  some 
six  feet  trailed  upon  the  ground. 

' '  Those — those  men  1-look  so  funny  running  after  it, ' ' 
said  Mrs.  Gudrun,  upon  whom  the  promise  of  the  tiara 
had  acted  as  a  stimulant. 

"I  hope  they  may  keep  up  with  it,"  muttered  De 
Petoburgh  as  the  airship  sailed  over  the  humming  streets 
of  the  gay  city,  and  tiny  men  and  women  turned  white 
specks  of  faces  upwards  to  stare.  ' '  Ease  her,  Bolsover, ' ' 
he  commanded. 

' '  Oh,  we  're  going  right  up  again ! ' '  gasped  Mrs.  Gud- 
run. Then,  as  the  airship  regained  the  horizontal: 
' '  This  isn  't  half  bad, ' '  she  said  in  a  more  cheerful  tone, 
"but  the  housetops  with  their  spiky  chimney-pots  look 
dreadfully  dangerous.  The  guide-rope  has  knocked  a 


202  AIR 

row  of  potted  geraniums  off  a  third-floor  balcony,  and 
the  old  man  who  was  reading  the  paper  in  the  cane 
chair  must  be  swearing  awfully.  But  where  are  the 
men?  I  don't  see  them;  do  you?" 

The  four  workmen  were  at  that  moment  heatedly 
cursing  the  Municipal  Council  of  Paris  at  the  bottom  of 
a  very  long,  very  deep  trench  which  had  been  excavated 
across  a  certain  street  for  the  accommodation  of  a  new 
drain.  The  guide-rope  pursued  its  course  without  them, 
now  sweeping  a  peaceful  citizen  off  his  legs,  now  cov- 
ering the  occupants  of  a  smart  victoria  with  mud,  now 
trailing  over  a  roof  or  coiling  serpent-wise  around  the 
base  of  a  block  of  chimneys.  In  the  distance  loomed  the 
Eiffel  Tower,  but  in  answer  to  De  Petoburgh's  repeated 
requests  that  he  should  steer  thither,  Bobby  Bolsover 
only  groaned.  And  the  airship,  after  navigating  grace- 
fully over  the  green  ocean  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne, 
continued  her  trip  over  the  Longchamps  racecourse, 
veered  to  the  south  at  the  pleasure  of  a  shifting  current 
of  air,  and,  having  leaked  much,  began  plainly  to  buckle 
and  bend. 

De  Petoburgh,  uncomfortably  conscious  of  a  misspent 
existence  and  wasted  opportunities,  looked  at  the  back 
of  Mrs.  Gudrun's  head,  and  wondered  whether  she  knew 
any  prayers. 

"The  trees  are  coming  awfully  close,  aren't  they?" 
said  the  unconscious  beauty. 

"Awfully!"  said  the  Duke,  as  the  capricious  motor 
stopped. 

Then  Mrs.  Gudrun  screamed,  and  Bobby  Bolsover, 
casting  his  goggles  to  the  winds,  huddled  in  the  bottom 
of  his  basket,  and  the  debilitated  but  plucky  nobleman 
shut  his  eyes  and  thought  of  his  long-dead  mother  as  the 
airship  hurtled  downwards  .  .  .  crash  into  the  top  of  the 
tallest  of  the  giant  oaks  in  the  magnificent  park  of 
JI.S.H.  Prince  Gogonof  Babouine, 


AIR  203 

The  Prince  has  the  reputation  of  being  excessively 
hospitable.  "When  the  three  passengers  recovered  from 
the  shaking,  the  top  of  a  long  ladder  pierced  the  thick 
foliage  beneath  the  wrecked  vessel,  and  the  Prince's 
major-domo,  a  stout  personage  in  black  with  a  gold 
chain,  came  climbing  up  with  a  courteous  message  from 
the  Prince.  Would  Madame  and  M.  le  Due  and  the  other 
gentleman  descend  and  partake  of  the  second  dejeuner, 
which  was  on  the  point  of  being  served,  or  would  they 
prefer  to  remain  on  board  their  vessel? 

"Stop  up  here?  Does  the  man  take  us  for  angels?" 
snorted  Mrs.  Gudrun  indignantly. 

The  descent  was  not  without  danger,  but  with  the  aid 
of  De  Petoburgh  and  the  major-domo,  she  braved  and 
completed  it  without  injury  either  to  her  long  celebrated 
limbs  or  her  famous  features.  Bobby  followed. 

The  Prince  entertained  the  shipwrecked  castaways  in 
princely  fashion,  and  drove  the  party  back  to  Paris  on 
his  drag,  the  wonderful  yellow  coach  with  the  team  of 
curly  Orloffs.  And  he  consented  to  dine ;  and  that  night 
Mrs.  Gudrun  held  a  reception  behind  the  illuminated 
balconies  of  the  Hotel  Fritz,  while  the  London  newsboys 
were  yelling  her  familiar  name,  and  the  evening  papers 
containing  the  most  ornamental  particulars  of  her  ad- 
venture went  off  like  hot  cakes. 

According  to  the  most  reliable  account  garnered  by 
our  special  correspondent  from  the  lovely  lips  of  the 
exquisite  aeronaut,  she  had  never  quailed  in  the  moment 
of  peril,  and,  indeed,  upon  the  distinguished  authority 
of  the  Hon.  R.  Bolsover:  "One  is  never  frightened 
while  one  can  rely  upon  one's  own  pluck!"  Nobody 
interviewed  De  Petoburgh,  leaning  vacuously  smiling 
against  the  wall.  Indeed,  he  had  developed  another  of 
his  attacks,  and  could  not  have  responded  with  any  co- 
herence. 

"Wonderful    fellow,    Bolsover,"    Teddy    Candelish 


204  AIR 

gushed,  Teddy,  all  smile  and  sparkle,  ' '  so  brainy  and  re- 
sourceful ! ' ' 

"Bath*  ..."  assented  De  Petoburgh  fragmentarily. 

' '  And  Her  Nibs — a  heroine — positively  a  heroine ! ' ' 

' '  Ea ' ! "  assented  De  Petoburgh,  as  the  heroine  swept 
by,  making  magnificent  eyes  at  the  palpably  enamored 
Prince,  while  Paris  murmured  indiscreet  admiration. 

' '  And  you,  Duke,  eh  ?  Found  it  trying  to  your  nerves, 
they  tell  me?"  Teddy  continued,  twirling  his  golden 
mustache.  "Such  trips  too  costly,  eh,  to  indulge  in 
often?" 

"Ea'!"  agreed  De  Petoburgh,  with  a  glance  at  the 
thousand-guinea  diamond  fender  surmounting  the  most 
frequently  photographed  features  in  the  world. 


SIDE! 

UPON  the  conclusion  of  the  phenomenally  brief  run  of 
The  Poisoned  Kiss  at  the  Sceptre  Theatre,  Mrs.  Gudrun, 
who  had  sustained  the  heroic  role  of  Aldapora  "with 
abounding  verve  and  true  histrionic  inwardness"  (to 
cull  a  quotation  from  the  enthusiastic  notice  which  ap- 
peared in  the  Theatrical  Piffer),  and  whose  sculptur- 
esque temples  throbbed  no  less  with  the  weight  of  the 
dramatic  laurels  heaped  upon  them  than  with  the  heady 
quality  of  the  champagne  with  which  those  laurels  had 
been  liberally  drowned — Mrs.  Gudrun  left  the  author 
and  the  Syndicate,  per  their  Business  Representative, 
exchanging  poignant  personalities  over  a  non-existent 
percentage,  and  hied  her  to  the  Gallic  capital  for  recrea- 
tion and  repose;  bearing  in  her  train  the  leading  man, 
Mr.  Leo  De  Boo,  a  young  actor  who  had  chipped  the  egg 
of  obscurity  in  the  recent  production.  De  Boo  was  "a 
splendid  specimen  of  virile  beauty,"  according  to  the 
Greenroom  Rag — all  shoulders,  legs,  nose,  and  curls, 
without  any  perceptible  forehead ;  and  Teddy  Candelish, 
most  ubiquitous  of  acting-managers,  came  within  an  ap- 
preciable distance  of  being  epigrammatic  when  he 
termed  him  "a  chronic  cad  in  beautiful  boots."  For 
more  exquisite  foot-gloves  than  those  De  Boo  sported 
were  never  seen,  whoever  made  and  gave  credit  for 
them;  and  De  Boo  was  said  to  have  a  different  pair  for 
every  day  in  the  month  and  every  imaginable  change  in 
the  weather. 

"Nearly  threw  up  his  part  in  The  Poisoned  Kiss/' 
said  Teddy  afterwards,  at  the  club, ' '  when  he  discovered 

205 


206  SIDE! 

that  it  was  to  be  a  sixteenth-century  production;  took 
me  aside,  and  told  me  in  confidence  afterwards,  that  if 
he'd  been  allowed  to  play  Hermango  in  gray  suede  tops 
with  black  pearl  buttons  and  patent  leather  uppers,  the 
piece  would  have  been  a  colossal  monetary,  as  well  as 
artistic,  success." 

' '  Schwerlich !  Who  konn  bretend  to  follow  de  work- 
ings of  a  mind  like  dot  Jung  man's,"  said  Oscar  Gorm- 
leigh,  "vidout  de  assistance  of  de  migroscope?  Und 
hof  I  not  known  a  brima  donna  degline  to  go  on  for 
Siebel  begause  she  hodd  been  kifen  brown  insdead  of 
violet  tights  ?  It  vas  a  tarn  gonsbiracy,  she  svore  py  all 
her  kodds!  In  prown  legs  she  vould  groak  like  von 
frog  mit  kvinsy — mit  violet  she  always  varble  like  de 
nachtigall.  De  choke  of  it  vas" — the  talented  stage- 
director  laid  a  hairy  finger  archly  against  his  Teutonic 
nose — "dat  voman  always  groak — not  never  varble — 
tights  or  no  tights ! ' ' 

"De  Boo  is  a  rank  bounder,"  said  Candelish  decid- 
edly. 

' '  He  has  pounded  from  de  ranks, ' '  pronounced  Gorm- 
leigh,  "und  he  vill  go  on  pounding — each  pound  so 
motch  higher  dan  de  last  von,  oontil  he  drop  splosh  into 
de  kutter  akain.  He  who  now  oggupies  a  svell  mansion- 
flat  in  Biccadilly,  ach  ja! — he  vill  end  vere  he  bekan — 
in  de  liddle  krubby  sit-bedding-room  over  de  shabby 
shop  vere  dey  let  out  segond  hond  boogs  on  hire  mit 
segond  hond  furnidure." 

Mrs.  Gudrun  would  have  been  deeply  incensed  had 
she  heard  this  unlicensed  expression  of  opinion  from 
one  whom  she  had  always  kept  in  his  place  as  a  paid  un- 
derling. For  six  nights  and  a  matinee  she  had,  in  the 
character  of  Aldapora,  elected  to  poison  herself  in  the 
most  painful  manner  rather  than  incur  the  loss  of  De 
Boo's  affections,  and,  with  the  "true  histrionic  inward- 
ness" so  belauded  by  the  Theatrical  Piffer,  she  had  iden- 


SIDE !  207 

tified  herself  with  the  part.  So  she  took  a  blazing  comet 
flight  to  Paris  with  the  actor  in  her  train,  and  para- 
graphs announcing  their  arrival  at  the  Hotel  Spitz  ap- 
peared in  the  London  papers. 

' '  Listen  to  this,  Jane  Ann, ' '  said  the  paternal  De  Boo, 
whose  name  was  Boodie — and  when  I  add  that  for  twen- 
ty years  the  worthy  father  had  been  employed  as  one 
of  the  principal  cutters  at  Toecaps  and  Heels,  that  cele- 
brated firm  of  West-End  bootmakers,  it  will  be  under- 
stood whence  the  son  obtained  his  boots.  "To  think," 
Mr.  Boodie  continued,  "that  Alfred — our  Alfred,  who 
sp'iled  every  particle  of  leather  he  set  his  knife  to,  and 
couldn't  stitch  a  welt  or  strap  a  seam  to  save  his  life — 
should  ever  have  lived  to  be  called  a  rising  genius ! ' ' 

' '  The  ways  of  Providence  are  wonderful,  father ! "  re- 
turned the  said  Alfred's  mother  dutifully.  Mrs.  Boodie 
was  an  experienced  finisher  herself,  and  had  always 
lamented  Alfred's  lack  of  "turn"  in  the  family  direc- 
tion. "An',  if  I  was  you,  I  wouldn't  mention  that  bit 
in  the  paper  to  Aphasia  Cutts.  She's  dreadful  jealous 
over  our  Alfred,  even  now,  though  he  hasn't  bin  to  see 
'er  or  wrote  for  two  years.  As  good  as  a  break  off,  I 
should  a-regarded  it,  'ad  I  bin  in  her  place.  But  she's 
different  to  what  I  was. ' ' 

' '  So  are  all  the  gals, ' '  said  Mr.  Boodie  with  conviction, 
bestowing  upon  his  wife  a  salute  flavored  with  Eussia 
leather  and  calf. 

"Well,  I'm  sure.  Go  along,  father,  do!"  said  Mrs. 
Boodie,  with  a  delighted  shove. 

But  of  course  Aphasia — so  christened  by  an  ambitious 
mother  in  defiance  of  the  expostulations  of  a  timid 
curate — had  already  seen  and  cried  over  the  paragraph. 
She  had  loved  Alfred  and  stood  up  for  him  when  he  was 
a  plain,  stupid  boy  with  an  unconquerable  aversion  to 
work.  She  had  been  his  champion  when  he  grew  up,  no 
longer  plain,  but  as  pronounced  a  loafer  as  ever.  She 


208  SIDE ! 

had  given  up,  in  exchange  for  his  loutish  affections,  the 
love  of  an  honest  and  hard-working  man. 

"I  can't  'elp  it!"  she  had  said;  "you  can  get  on  with- 
out me,  and  Alfred  can't,  pore  chap.  His  Par  calls  'im 
a  waster — I  believe  'e'd  give  'im  the  strap  if  'e  wasn't 
six  foot  'igh.  But  I've  got  'im  an  opening  in  the  theat- 
rical line,  through  a  friend  of  mine  as  does  fancy  braid- 
ing at  Buskin's,  the  stage  shoemaker's  in  Covent  Gar- 
den. It's  only  to  walk  on  as  one  of  the  Giant's  boy- 
babies  in  the  Drury  Lane  panto. — eighteen  pence  a  night 
and  matinees — but  his  Mar  will  be  thankful.  If  only  'is 
legs  are  long  enough  for  the  part " 

They  were,  and  from  that  hour  Alfred  had  embarked 
on  a  career.  When  entrusted  with  a  line  to  speak,  it 
was  Aphasia  who  held  the  grimy  slip  of  paper  on  which 
it  was  written  and  aided  the  would-be  actor  with  counsel 
and  advice. 

"And  'old  up  your  'ead,  do,  as  if  you  was  proud  of 
yourself,  and  don 't  bend  at  the  knees ;  and  whether  you 
remember  your  words  or  not,  throw  'em  out  from  your 
chest  as  if  you  was  proud  of  'em.  An'  move  your  arms 
from  the  shoulder  like  as  if  you  was  swimmin' — don't 
crook  your  elbers  like  a  wooden  doll.  And  throw  a  bit 
o'  meanin'  into  your  eye.  You  took  me  to  see  that 
Frenchman,  Cocklin  'e  calls  'imself ;  as  played  the  chap 
with  the  boko  'e  wouldn  't  let  the  other  chaps  make  game 
of.  ...  French  or  Japanese,  they're  both  Dutch  to 
me,  but  I  watched  Cocklin 's  eye,  and  I  watched  'is  'ands, 
an'  I  could  f oiler  the  story  as  if  it  was  print,  an'  plainer. 
I've  went  to  see  an  actor  since  what  folks  said  was  a 
great  artis',  and  if  'e  did  talk  English,  'is  eye  was  as 
dumb  as  a  boiled  fresh  'addock's  an'  's  'ands  was  like 
slices  of  skate.  Now  say  your  bit  over  again. ' ' 

And  Alfred  said  it,  this  time  to  the  satisfaction  of 
his  instructress.  When  he  got  a  real  part  Aphasia 
coached  him,  and  rode  down  from  Hammersmith  with 


SIDE !  209 

him  on  the  bus,  and  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  stage- 
door  when  he  came  out,  the  tears  of  joy  undried  on  her 
pale  cheeks.  And  that  was  the  night  upon  which  she 
first  noticed  a  coldness  in  the  manner  of  her  betrothed. 

"An'  now  I'm  not  good  enough  for  him  to  wipe  his 
boots  on,"  she  sobbed,  sitting  on  her  bed  in  the  single 
room  lodging  off  the  roaring,  clanging  Broadway — "the 
boots  'is  Par  cut  an'  welted,  an'  'is  Mar  stitched,  an'  I 
finished.  But  I  won't  stand  in  'is  light.  I've  my  pride, 
if  I  am  a  boot-finisher.  I'll  see  that  Mrs.  What's-her- 
name  face  to  face,  an'  'ave  it  out  as  woman  to  woman, 
an'  tell  'er  she's  welcome  to  marry  'im  for  me." 

And  Aphasia  dried  her  poor  red  eyes  and  took  off 
Alfred 's  betrothal  ring — a  fifteen-carat  gold  circlet  with 
three  real  garnets,  bought  in  the  Broadway  one  blush- 
ful, blissful  Saturday  night — and  evicted  his  photo- 
graphs from  their  gorgeous  cheap  frames,  and  made  a 
brown-paper  parcel  of  these  things,  with  a  yellow  leather 
purse  with  a  blue  enamel ' '  A "  on  it,  and  tied  it  up  with 
string. 

Perhaps  something  of  her  fateful  mood  was  telepath- 
ically  conveyed  to  Mr.  Leo  De  Boo  at  that  moment,  for 
he  shivered  as  he  sat  at  the  feet  of  Mrs.  Gudrun  upon 
the  balcony  of  a  private  suite  at  the  Hotel  Spitz,  and 
turned  up  eyes  that  were  large  and  lustrous  at  that  im- 
perishable image  of  Beauty,  exhaling  clouds  of  fashion- 
able perfume  and  upborne  on  billows  of  chiffon  and  lace. 
Mrs.  Gudrun,  who  naturally  mistook  the  spasms  of  a 
genuine  plebeian  British  conscience  for  the  pangs  of 
love,  lent  him  her  hand — dazzlingly  white,  astonishingly 
manicured,  jeweled  to  the  knuckles,  and  polished  by  the 
devout  kisses  of  generations  of  worshipers — and  De  Boo 
mumbled  it,  and  tried  to  be  grateful  and  talk  beautifully 
about  his  acting.  But  this  bored  Mrs.  Gudrun,  who 
preferred  to  talk  about  her  own. 

"I  have  often  felt  that  myself,"  she  said — "the  con- 


210  SIDE! 

viction  that  a  crowded  audience  hung  upon  my  lips  and 
saw  only  with  my  eyes,  and  that  I  swayed  them  as  with 
a  magic  thingumbob,  by  the  power  of  a  magnetic  per- 
sonality. ' ' 

"It  is  a  mystery,"  said  De  Boo,  passing  his  long  fin- 
gers through  his  clustering  curls,  "that  once  in  a  cen- 
tury or  so  a  man  should  be  born " 

"Or  a  woman.  Marvelous!"  agreed  Mrs.  Gudrun. 
"Marvelous!  the  man  who  runs  the  Daily  Tomahawk 
said  that  when  I  made  my  first  appearance  on  the 
stage." 

"Genius  is  a  crown  of  fire,"  said  De  Boo,  who  had 
read  this  somewhere.  "It  illuminates  the  world,  yet 
scorches  the  wearer  to  the  bone.  He " 

' '  She  suffers, ' '  said  Mrs.  Gudrun,  neatly  stopping  the 
ball  and  playing  it  on  her  side.  "You  may  bet  she  suf- 
fers. Hasn't  she  got  the  artistic  temperament?  The 
amount  of  worry  mine  has  given  me  you  would  never 
believe.  Cluffer,  of  the  Morning  Whooper,  calls  me  a 
'consolidated  bundle  of  screaming  nerves.'  When  I've 
sat  down  to  dinner  on  the  eve  of  a  first  night,  De  Peto- 
burgh — you've  met  the  Duke? — has  had  to  hold  me  in 
my  chair  while  Bobby  Bolsover  gave  me  champagne  and 
Angostura  out  of  the  soup-ladle.  And  I  believe  I  bit 
a  piece  out  of  that.  And  afterwards — ask  'em  both  if  I 
wasn't  fairly  esquinte." 

"But  the  possessor  of  an  artistic  temperament — such 
as  mine — even  though  the  fairy  gift  entails  the  keenest 
susceptibility  to  anguish/'  quickly  continued  De  Boo, 
"enjoys  unspeakable  compensation  in  the  revelation  to 
him  alone  of  a  kingdom  which  others  may  not  enter. 
Looking  upon  the  high  mountains  in  the  blush  of  dawn, 
I  have  shouted  aloud  with  glee " 

"The  first  time  I  ever  went  into  a  southern  Italian 
orange-grove  in  full  bloom,"  acquiesced  Mrs.  Gudrun, 
"the  Prince  of  Kursaal  Carle  Monto,  who  was  with  me, 


SIDE! 

simply  sat  down  flat.  He  said  Titian  ought  to  have  been 
alive  to  paint  my  face  and  form  against  that  back- 
ground. .  .  .  By  the  way,  the  first  act  of  that  new 
play,  the  title  of  which  I've  forgotten,  and  which  I've 
leased  from  a  scribbling  idiot  whose  name  don't  signify, 
takes  place  in  a  blooming  orange-grove.  I've  cast  you 
for  the  leading  man's  part,  Leo,  and  I  hope  you  will 
be  properly  grateful  for  the  chance,  and  conquer  that 
nasty  habit  you  have  of  standing  leering  at  the  audience 
in  all  my  great  moments." 

"Dearest  lady,"  De  Boo  argued  glibly,  "does  it  not 
increase  the  dramatic  poignancy  of  such  moments  if 
the  spectators  are  enabled  to  read  in  the  varying  ex- 
pressions pictured  on  my  face  the  feelings  your  art  in- 
spires?" 

But  Mrs.  Gudrun  was  inexorable.  "They  can  read 
'em  in  the  back  of  your  head  if  they're  anxious,"  said 
she,  "or  they  can  take  the  direct  tip  from  me.  I  hope 
that's  good  enough.  I  don't  see  the  cherry-bun  of  run- 
ning a  theater  to  be  scored  off  by  other  people,  and  so 
you  know!  And  now  that's  settled,  let  us  go  and  have 
stuffed  oysters  and  roast  ices  at  Noel  Peter's,  and  see 
Sarah  afterwards  in  her  new  tragedy  role.  I  'm  the  only 
woman  she's  really  afraid  of,  you  know,  and  I  feel  I'm 
bound  to  romp  in  in  front  of  her  before  long.  She 
says  herself  that  acting  like  mine  cannot  be  taught 
in  a  conservatoire,  and  that  I  constitute  a  complete 
school  in  myself.  Have  you  ever  seen  me  play  Lady 
Teazle?" 

"Unhappily  I  have  not.  It  is  a  loss,"  said  De  Boo, 
"a  distinct  loss.  By  the  way,  when  I  scored  so  tre- 
mendously as  Charles  Surface  at  Mudderpool " 

"Hell  is  full  of  men  who  have  scored  as  Charles 
Surface  at  Mudderpool,"  said  Mrs.  Gudrun  crushingly. 
' '  That  sounds  like  a  quotation,  doesn  't  it  ?  Only  it  must 
be  mine,  because  I  never  read.  You're  a  charming 


212  SIDE! 

fellow,  and  a  clever  boy,  Leo,  but,  as  a  friend,  let  me 
tell  you  that  you  talk  too  much  about  yourself.  It's 
bad  form;  and  the  truly  great  are  invariably  the  truly 
modest.  I  must  save  up  that  epigram  for  my  next  in- 
terview, I  think.  There's  the  auto-brougham." 

And  De  Boo  enfolded  the  renowned  form  of  his 
manageress  in  a  point  lace  and  sable  wrap,  and  they 
went  off  to  Noel  Peter's,  and  saw  La  Gr-r-ande  per- 
form. 

Rehearsals  of  the  new  play,  Pride  of  Race,  at  the 
Sceptre  had  scarcely  commenced  when  in  upon  Teddy 
Candelish,  laboriously  smoking  in  his  sanctum  and  open- 
ing the  morning's  mail,  swept  Mrs.  Gudrun. 

"I  haven't  a  moment  to  breathe,"  she  said  impe- 
rially, accepting  the  chair  Teddy  acrobatically  vacated. 
"Come  in,  De  Petoburgh — come  in,  Bobby;  you  are  in 
the  way,  but  I'm  used  to  it.  No,  De  Petoburgh,  that 
cellaret's  tabooed;  remember  what  Sir  Henry  said  to 
you  about  liqueurs  before  lunch.  Are  there  any  letters 
of  importance,  Teddy,  to  my  cheek?" 

"Several  bundles  of  press-cuttings  from  different 
firms,  thirty  or  forty  bills,  a  few  tenders  from  photog- 
raphers, and — and  some  love-letters,"  replied  Cande- 
lish, pointing  to  some  neat  piles  of  correspondence  ar- 
ranged on  the  American  roll-top  desk.  "Usual  thing — 
declarations,  proposals,  and  so  forth." 

"Always  plenty  of  those — hey?"  chuckled  De  Peto- 
burgh, sucking  a  perfunctory  peptoid  lozenge  in  lieu 
of  the  stimulant  denied. 

' '  Plenty,  b  'Jove ! ' '  echoed  Bobby  Bolsover. 

"Not  so  many  as  there  used  to  be,"  responded  Can- 
delish with  tactless  truthfulness,  rewarded  by  the  lady 
with  a  magnificent  glare.  "By  the  way,  there's  one 
odd  letter,  from  a  girl  or  a  woman  who  isn't  quite  a 
lady,  asking  for  an  interview  on  private  business.  Signs 


SIDE!  213 

herself  by  the  rummiest  name — Aphasia  Cutts."  He 
presented  the  letter. 

"Aphasia?"  said  Mrs.  Gudrun,  extending  heavily  jew- 
eled fingers  for  the  missive.  "Isn't  that  what  De  Peto- 
burgh  has  when  he  can  only  order  drinks  in  one  syl- 
lable and  his  legs  take  him  where  he  doesn't  want  to 
go?  Eh,  Bobby?" 

"Yes;  but  remindin'  the  Duke  of  that  always  brings 
on  an  attack,"  said  Bobby  solicitously.  "Look  at  him 
twitchin'  now.  .  .  .  Steady,  Peto!  Woa-a,  old  man- 
nums ! ' ' 

"Take  him  for  a  tatta  while  I  finish  the  rehearsal," 
commanded  Mrs.  Gudrun,  rising  from  Teddy's  chair  in 
an  upsurge  of  expensive  draperies.  "Write  to  this 
Aphasia  girl,  Teddy,  and  say  I'll  see  her  to-morrow, 
between  three  and  four  p.  m.  After  all,  the  whole- 
souled  adoration  of  one 's  own  sex  is  worth  having, ' '  the 
lady  said,  as,  heralded  by  the  rustling  of  silken  robes, 
the  barbaric  clash  of  jeweled  ornaments,  and  wafts  of 
fashionable  perfume,  she  sailed  back  to  the  boards. 

When  Aphasia  got  her  reply,  p.p.  Teddy,  some  hours 
later,  there  was  very  little  of  whole-souled  adoration 
in  her  reception  of  the  missive. 

"I  s'pose  she  looks  on  me  as  the  dirt  under  her  feet, 
like  Alfred.  But  I  won't  let  that  put  me  off  makin' 
the  sacrifice  that's  for  his  good — the  ungrateful  thing! 
I  'ope  she'll  make  'im  a  nice  wife,  that's  all,"  she 
sobbed,  as  she  took  from  her  collar-and-cuff  drawer  the 
flat  brown-paper  parcel  containing  the  garnet  ring,  the 
photographs,  and  the  letters.  And  she  dressed  herself 
in  her  best,  with  a  large  lace  collar  over  a  cloth  jacket, 
and  the  once  fashionable  low-necked  pneumonia-blouse, 
to  which  the  girls  of  her  class  so  fondly  cling,  and  went 
to  meet  the  lady  whom,  in  terms  borrowed  from  the 
latest  penny  romance,  she  called  her  "haughty  rival." 

Mrs.  Gudrun  received  her  with  excessive  graciousness. 


SIDE! 

A  costume  rehearsal  was  in  progress,  and  the  lady  was 
in  the  hands  of  her  maids  and  dressers.  "I  suppose 
this  is  the  first  time  you  have  ever  been  behind  the 
scenes?"  she  inquired.  "Look  about  you  as  much  as 
you  like,  and  then  you  will  be  able  to  say  to  your 
friends:  'I  have  been  in  Mrs.  Gudrun's  dressing-room.' 
You  see,  I  am  in  the  gown  I  wear  in  the  first  act.  It 
is  by  Babin;  and  if  you  write  for  a  ladies'  paper,  you 
will  remember  to  say  so,  please." 

"I  don't  write  for  any  ladies'  paper,"  said  Aphasia. 
"I  couldn't  spell  well  enough — not  if  they  ast  me  ever 
so.  But  it's  a  lovely  gownd,  and  I  suppose  all  that 
stuff  on  your  face  is  what  makes  you  look  so  young  an' 
'andsome — from  a  long  way  off." 

Mrs.  Gudrun's  famous  features  assumed  a  look  of 
cold  displeasure.  She  assumed  the  majestic  air  that 
suited  her  so  eminently  well,  and  asked  the  young  per- 
son's business. 

"It's  quite  private,  and  I'll  thank  you  to  send  away 
your  maids,  if  you've  no  objection,"  said  the  dauntless 
Aphasia.  "The  fact  is,"  she  continued,  when  the  in- 
dignant menials  had  been  waved  from  the  apartment, 
"as  I've  come  to  make  you  a  present — a  present  of  a 
young  man " 

"Look  here,  my  good  young  woman/'  began  the  in- 
censed manageress. 

Aphasia  suddenly  handed  her  the  brown-paper  par- 
cel, and  the  wrath  of  Mrs.  Gudrun  was  turned  to 
trembling.  She  was  sure  this  was  an  escaped  lunatic. 
Aphasia  profited  by  the  lull  in  the  storm  to  explain. 
She  had  come  to  hand  over  her  Alfred — stock,  goodwill, 
and  fixtures.  He  had  forgotten  to  be  off  with  the  old 
love  before  he  went  on  with  the  new,  but  the  old  love 
bore  no  malice.  All  was  now  over. 

"And  you  may  marry  'im  whenever  you  like," 
sobbed  Aphasia. 


SIDE!  215 

"I  never  heard  anything  so  indecent  in  the  whole 
course  of  my  life, ' '  said  Mrs.  Gudrun,  rising  in  offended 
majesty.  "Marry  Mr.  De  Boo,  indeed!  If  I  had  mar- 
ried every  leading  man  I've  played  love-scenes  with 
since  I  adopted  this  profession,  I  should  be  a  female 
Brigham  Young!  'In  love  with  me!'  Perhaps  he  is; 
it's  rather  a  common  complaint  among  the  men  I  know. 
As  for  Mr.  De  Boo,  if  he  has  low  connections  and  vul- 
gar entanglements,  they  are  nothing  to  me.  Good-day! 
Stop !  You  had  better  take  this  parcel  of  rubbish  with 
you.  Dawkins — the  stage-door!" 

And  Aphasia  found  herself  being  ushered  along  the 
passage.  Bewildered  and  dazzled  by  the  glaring  lights, 
the  excitement  and  the  strangeness,  she  ran  almost  into 
the  arms  of  De  Boo  himself  as  he  emerged  from  his 
dressing-room  next  the  manageress's.  Had  he  over- 
heard? There  had  been  a  curtained-over  door  on  that 
side.  Under  his  paint  his  handsome  features  were 
black  with  rage;  he  caught  the  girl's  shoulders  in  a 
furious  grip,  and  spluttered  in  her  ear: 

' '  Damn  you !  Damn  you,  you  sneaking  creature !  You 
have  made  a  pretty  mess  of  things  for  me — haven 't  you  ? 
— with  your  blab  about  my  father  and  the  boot-business, 
and  my  letters  and  the  ring  I  gave  you.  To  my  dying 
day  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again!" 

He  threw  her  from  him  savagely  and  strode  away. 

Aphasia  stood  outside  the  theater  and  shook  with  sobs. 
It  chanced — or  did  not  chance,  so  queer  are  the  vagaries 
of  Destiny — that  Ulick  Snowle,  the  president  of  the 
New  Stage-Door  Club,  happened  to  be  passing;  he  had 
just  called  in  at  the  box-office  to  privately  book  the 
first  three  rows  of  the  upper  circle  on  behalf  of  the 
club,  the  Old  Stage-Doorers  having  secured  the  gallery. 
Both  clubs  were  originally  one,  the  Old  Stage-Doorers 
having  thrown  off  the  younger  club  as  the  cuttlefish  gets 
rid  of  the  supernumerary  limb  which  in  time  becomes 


216  SIDE! 

another  cuttlefish.  And  the  unwritten  compact  between 
both  clubs  is  that  if  one  applauds  a  new  production, 
the  other  shall  execrate  the  same — an  arrangement  which 
contributes  hugely  to  the  liveliness  of  first-nights. 

No  uninitiated  person  beholding  Ulick,  with  his  shaggy 
beard,  aged  felt-basin  hat  of  Continental  make,  short 
nautical  coat,  and  tight-fitting  sporting  trousers,  would 
suppose  him  to  be  the  great  personage  he  really  is.  He 
came  up  to  Aphasia,  and  bluntly  asked  her  what  was 
the  matter,  and  if  he  couldn't  do  something?  In  her 
overwhelming  woe  and  desolation,  she  was  like  the  soda- 
water  bottle  of  the  glass-ball-stoppered  description — 
once  push  in  the  stopper,  there  is  no  arresting  the  escape 
of  the  aerated  fluid.  She  told  the  sympathizing  Ulick 
all  before  he  put  her  into  the  Hammersmith  bus,  and 
when  he  would  have  handed  in  the  fateful  brown-paper 
parcel — ' '  Keep  it, ' '  she  said,  with  a  gesture  of  aversion. 
"Burn  it — chuck  the  thing  in  the  dustbin.  They're  no 
manner  o'  use  to  me!"  And  away  she  rattled,  leaving 
Ulick  Snowle  upon  the  pavement,  in  his  hands  an  engine 
of  destruction  meet  to  be  used  in  the  extermination  of 
the  unfittest. 

For  the  New  Stage-Door  Club  did  not  love  Mr.  Leo 
De  Boo,  whose  manner  to  old  friends — whom  he  had 
often  led  around  street  corners  and  relieved  of  half- 
crowns — did  not  improve  with  his  worldly  prospects. 
And  Ulick  stood  and  meditated  while  the  double  torrent 
of  the  London  traffic  went  roaring  east  and  west;  and 
as  a  charitable  old  lady  was  about  to  press  a  penny  into 
his  hand,  Tom  Glauber,  the  dandy  president  of  the  Old 
Stage-Doorers,  came  along,  and  the  men  greeted  cor- 
dially. Von  Glauber  seemed  interested  in  something 
that  Ulick  had  to  tell,  and  the  two  went  off  very  con- 
fidentially, arm-in-arm. 

"It  would  be  a  sensation  if,  for  once,  the  O.S.D.'s  and 
the  N.S.D.'s  acted  in  unison,"  agreed  Tom  Glauber. 


SIDE! 

And  on  the  night  when  Pride  of  Race  was  produced 
at  the  Sceptre,  both  clubs  attended  in  full  strength,  every 
man  with  a  crook-handled  walking-stick,  and  a  parcel 
buttoned  under  his  coat.  The  piece  had  just  concluded 
a  run  of  three  hundred  nights,  and  every  reader  is  ac- 
quainted with  the  plot,  which  is  of  modern  Italy  and 
Rome  of  to-day,  to  quote  the  programme.  We  all  know 
how  the  young  Marchese  di  Monte  Polverino,  in  whose 
veins  ran  the  bluest  blood  of  the  Latin  race,  secretly 
wedded  Aquella  Guazetta,  the  tripe-seller,  who  had  won 
his  lofty  affections  in  the  guise  of  a  Bulgarian  Princess, 
and  how  the  dread  secret  of  Aquella 's  origin  was  re- 
vealed at  the  very  moment  when  the  loftiest  and  most 
exclusive  of  the  Roman  nobility  were  about  to  welcome 
the  newly  made  Marchesa  into  their  ranks.  .  .  .  Aquella, 
her  brain  turned  by  the  acuteness  of  her  mental  suffer- 
ing, greets  the  revelation  with  a  peal  of  frenzied  laugh- 
ter. Now  this  laughter  was  a  continual  obstacle,  dur- 
ing rehearsals,  in  the  path  of  Mrs.  Gudrun.  Said  she: 

"The  peculiarity  and  originality  of  my  genius,  as 
Cluffer  says,  consists  in  the  fact  that  I  can't  do  the 
things  that  might  be  expected  of  me — not  for  filberts; 
while  I  can  do  the  things  that  mightn't.  If  I  can't  really 
hit  off  that  laugh,  I'll  have  a  woman  in  the  wings  to 
do  it  for  me.  But  my  impression  is  that  I  shall  be  all 
right  at  night.  Don 't  forget,  Gormleigh.,  that  you  're  not 
to  tub  the  chandelier  altogether;  I  hate  to  play  to  a 
dark  house." 

"Py  vich  innovation,"  said  Gormleigh  afterwards, 
"de  gonsbirators  vas  enapled  to  garry  out  their  blan. 
Himmel!"  he  cried,  dabbing  his  overflowing  eyes  with 
an  antediluvian  silk  pocket-handkerchief,  "shall  I  effer 
forget — no,  not  vile  I  lif — de  face  of  dot  Jung  man ! ' ' 

For  at  the  moment  when  Monte  Polverino 's  scorn  of 
the  lovely  plebeian  he  has  wedded  is  expressed  in  words 
— when  Aquella,  pierced  to  the  heart  by  being  called 


218  SIDE! 

"a  low-born  vulgarian"  and  a  "peasant  huckster,"  is 
about  to  utter  her  famous  yell  of  frenzied  laughter,  the 
Old  Stage-Doorers  and  the  New  Stage-Doorers  hung  out 
their  boots.  A  chevaux  de  frise  of  walking-sticks,  from 
each  of  which  depended  a  pair  of  these  indispensable 
articles  of  attire,  graced  the  gallery,  distinguished  the 
upper  circle,  and  appeared  upon  the  level  of  the  pit. 
Stricken  to  the  soul,  faltering  and  ghastly  under  his 
paint,  and  shaking  in  the  most  sumptuous  pair  of  pat- 
ent leathers,  white  kid  topped,  in  which  he  had  yet  ap- 
peared, De  Boo  blankly  contemplated  the  horrid  spec- 
tacle ;  while  Mrs.  Gudrun,  to  whose  somewhat  latent 
sense  of  humor  the  spectacle  appealed,  burst  into  peal 
upon  peal  of  the  wildest  laughter  ever  heard  beyond 
the  walls  of  an  establishment  for  the  care  of  the  men- 
tally afflicted.  "The  grandeur,  poignancy,  and  reality 
of  the  acting, ' '  wrote  Cluffer,  of  the  Morning  Whooper, 
"was  acknowledged  by  a  crowded  house  with  a  deafen- 
ing and  unanimous  outburst  of  applause." 

"Both  Mrs.  Gudrun  and  Mr.  De  Boo  attained  the 
highest  level  of  dramatic  expression,"  pronounced  Mul- 
lekens,  of  the  Daily  Tomahawk.  "It  was  the  touch  of 
Nature  which  attunes  the  universe  to  one  throb  of  uni- 
versal relationship. ' ' 

The  play  was  a  success.  Even  the  "Boo's!"  of  both 
the  clubs,  united  for  the  nonce  in  disapprobation,  could 
not  rob  Leo  of  his  laurels.  He  wears  them  to-day,  for 
Pride  of  Race  has  enjoyed  a  tremendous  run. 

"We've  made  the  beggar's  reputation  instead  of  send- 
ing him  back  to  the  boot-shop  and  that  poor  girl,"  said 
Ulick  Snowle  to  Tom  Glauber  next  day. 

"Possibly,"  said  Tom  Glauber,  sniffing  at  his  insep- 
arable carnation.  "But  it's  all  the  better  for  the  girl, 
I  imagine,  in  the  long  run." 


A  SPIRIT  ELOPEMENT 

WHEN  I  exchanged  my  maiden  name  for  better  or 
worse,  and  dearest  Vavasour  and  I,  at  the  conclusion  of 
the  speeches — I  was  married  in  a  traveling-dress  of 
Bluefern's — descended  the  steps  of  mamma's  house  in 
Ebury  Street — the  Belgravian,  not  the  Pimlican  end — 
and,  amid  a  hurricane  of  farewells  and  a  hailstorm  of 
pink  and  yellow  and  white  confetti,  stepped  into  the 
brougham  that  was  to  convey  us  to  a  Waterloo  Station, 
en  route  for  Southampton — our  honeymoon  was  to  be 
spent  in  Guernsey — we  were  perfectly  well  satisfied  with 
ourselves  and  each  other.  This  state  of  mind  is  not 
uncommon  at  the  outset  of  wedded  life.  You  may  have 
heard  the  horrid  story  of  the  newly-wedded  cannibal 
chief,  who  remarked  that  he  had  never  yet  known  a 
young  bride  to  disagree  with  her  husband  in  the  early 
stages  of  the  honeymoon.  I  believe  if  dearest  Vavasour 
had  seriously  proposed  to  chop  me  into  cotelettes  and 
eat  me,  with  or  without  sauce,  I  should  have  taken  it 
for  granted  that  the  powers  that  be  had  destined  me  to 
the  high  end  of  supplying  one  of  the  noblest  of  created 
beings  with  an  entree  dish. 

We  were  idiotically  blissful  for  two  or  three  days.  It 
was  flowery  April,  and  Guernsey  was  looking  her  loveli- 
est. No  horrid  hotel  or  boarding-house  sheltered  our 
lawful  endearments.  Some  old  friends  of  papa's  had 
lent  us  an  ancient  mansion  standing  in  a  wild  garden, 
now  one  pink  riot  of  almond-blossom,  screened  behind 
lofty  walls  of  lichened  red  brick  and  weather-worn, 

219 


220  A    SPIRIT    ELOPEMENT 

wrought-iron  gates,  painted  yellow-white  like  all  the 
other  iron  and  wood  work  about  the  house. 

"Mon  Desir"  the  place  was  called,  and  the  fragrance 
of  potpourri  yet  hung  about  the  old  paneled  salons. 
Vavasour  wrote  a  sonnet — I  have  omitted  to  speak  be- 
fore of  my  husband's  poetic  gifts — all  about  the  breath 
of  new  Passion  stirring  the  fragrant  dust  of  dead  old 
Love,  and  the  kisses  of  lips  long  moldered  that  mingled 
with  ours.  It  was  a  lovely  sonnet,  but  crawly,  as  the 
poetical  compositions  of  the  Modern  School  are  apt  to 
be.  And  Vavasour  was  an  enthusiastic  convert  to,  and 
follower  of,  the  Modern  School.  He  had  often  told  me 
that,  had  not  his  father  heartlessly  thrown  him  into  his 
brewery  business  at  the  outset  of  his  career — Sim 's  Mild 
and  Bitter  Ales  being  the  foundation  upon  which  the 
family  fortunes  were  originally  reared — he,  Vavasour, 
would  have  been,  ere  the  time  of  speaking,  known  to 
Fame,  not  only  as  a  Minor  Poet,  but  a  Minor  Decadent 
Poet — which  trisyllabic  addition,  I  believe,  makes  as  ad- 
vantageous a  difference  as  the  word  "native"  when  at- 
tached to  an  oyster,  or  the  guarantee  "new  laid"  when 
employed  with  reference  to  an  egg. 

Dear  Vavasour's  temperament  and  tastes  having  a 
decided  bias  towards  the  gloomy  and  mystic,  he  had,  be- 
fore his  great  discovery  of  his  latent  poetical  gifts,  and 
in  the  intervals  of  freedom  from  the  brain-carking  and 
soul-stultifying  cares  of  business,  made  several  excur- 
sions into  the  regions  of  the  Unknown.  He  had  had 
some  sort  of  intercourse  with  the  Swedenborgians,  and 
had  mingled  with  the  Muggletonians ;  he  had  coquetted 
with  the  Christian  Scientists,  and  had  been,  until  Theo- 
sophic  Buddhism  opened  a  wider  field  to  his  researches, 
an  enthusiastic  Spiritualist.  But  our  engagement  some- 
what cooled  his  passion  for  psychic  research,  and  when 
questioned  by  me  with  regard  to  table-rappings,  mani- 
festations, and  materializations,  I  could  not  but  be  con- 


A    SPIRIT    ELOPEMENT 

scious  of  a  reticence  in  his  manner  of  responding  to  my 
innocent  desire  for  information.  The  reflection  that  he 
probably,  like  Canning's  knife-grinder,  had  no  story  to 
tell,  soon  induced  me  to  abandon  the  subject.  I  myself 
am  somewhat  reserved  at  this  day  in  my  method  of  deal- 
ing with  the  subject  of  spooks.  But  my  silence  does 
not  proceed  from  ignorance. 

Knowledge  came  to  me  after  this  fashion.  Though 
the  April  sun  shone  bright  and  warm  upon  Guernsey, 
the  island  nights  were  chill.  Waking  by  dear  Vava- 
sour 's  side — the  novelty  of  this  experience  has  since  been 
blunted  by  the  usage  of  years — somewhere  between  one 
and  two  o  'clock  towards  break  of  the  fourth  day  follow- 
ing our  marriage,  it  occurred  to  me  that  a  faint  cold 
draft,  with  a  suggestion  of  dampness  about  it,  was  blow- 
ing against  my  right  cheek.  One  of  the  windows  upon 
that  side — our  room  possessed  a  rather  unbecoming  cross- 
light — had  probably  been  left  open.  Dear  Vavasour, 
who  occupied  the  right  side  of  our  couch,  would  wake 
with  toothache  in  the  morning,  or,  perhaps,  with  mumps ! 
Shuddering,  as  much  at  the  latter  idea  as  with  cold,  I 
opened  my  eyes,  and  sat  up  in  bed  with  a  definite  inten- 
tion of  getting  out  of  it  and  shutting  the  offending  case- 
ment. Then  I  saw  Katie  for  the  first  time. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  right  side  of  the  bed,  close  to 
dear  Vavasour 's  pillow ;  in  fact,  almost  hanging  over  it. 
From  the  first  moment  I  knew  that  which  I  looked  upon 
to  be  no  creature  of  flesh  and  blood,  but  the  mere  appa- 
rition of  a  woman.  It  was  not  only  that  her  face,  which 
struck  me  as  both  pert  and  plain;  her  hands;  her  hair, 
which  she  wore  dressed  in  an  old-fashioned  ringletty 
mode — in  fact,  her  whole  personality  was  faintly  lumi- 
nous, and  surrounded  by  a  halo  of  bluish  phosphorescent 
light.  It  was  not  only  that  she  was  transparent,  so 
that  I  saw  the  pattern  of  the  old-fashioned,  striped, 
dimity  bed-curtain,  in  the  shelter  of  which  she  sat, 


A    SPIRIT    ELOPEMENT 

quite  plainly  through  her.  The  consciousness  was  fur- 
ther conveyed  to  me  by  a  voice — or  the  toneless,  flat, 
faded  impression  of  a  voice — speaking  faintly  and 
clearly,  not  at  my  outer,  but  at  my  inner  ear. 

' '  Lie  down  again,  and  don 't  fuss.  It 's  only  Katie ! ' ' 
she  said. 

"Only  Katie!"    I  liked  that! 

"I  dare  say  you  don't,"  she  said  tartly,  replying  as 
she  had  spoken,  and  I  wondered  that  a  ghost  should 
exhibit  such  want  of  breeding.  "But  you  have  got  to 
put  up  with  me ! " 

"How  dare  you  intrude  here — and  at  such  an  hour!" 
I  exclaimed  mentally,  for  there  was  no  need  to  wake 
dear  Vavasour  by  talking  aloud  when  my  thoughts  were 
read  at  sight  by  the  ghostly  creature  who  sat  so  famil- 
iarly beside  him. 

"I  knew  your  husband  before  you  did,"  responded 
Katie,  with  a  faint  phosphorescent  sneer.  "We  became 
acquainted  at  a  seance  in  North-West  London  soon  after 
his  conversion  to  Spiritualism,  and  have  seen  a  great 
deal  of  each  other  from  time  to  time."  She  tossed  her 
shadowy  curls  with  a  possessive  air  that  annoyed  me 
horribly.  ' '  He  was  constantly  materializing  me  in  order 
to  ask  questions  about  Shakespeare.  It  is  a  standing 
joke  in  our  Spirit  world  that,  from  the  best  educated 
spook  in  our  society  down  to  the  most  illiterate  astral 
that  ever  knocked  out  'rapport'  with  one  'p,'  we  are 
all  expected  to  know  whether  Shakespeare  wrote  his 
own  plays,  or  whether  they  were  done  by  another  per- 
son of  the  same  name." 

"And  which  way  was  it?"  I  asked,  yielding  to  a 
momentary  twinge  of  curiosity. 

Katie  laughed  mockingly.  ' '  There  you  go ! "  she  said, 
with  silent  contempt. 

' '  I  wish  you  would ! "  I  snapped  back  mentally.    ' '  It 


A    SPIRIT    ELOPEMENT  223 

seems  to  me  that  you  manifest  a  great  lack  of  refinement 
in  coming  here ! ' ' 

' '  I  cannot  go  until  Vavasour  has  finished, ' '  said  Katie 
pertly.  "Don't  you  see  that  he  has  materialized  me  by 
dreaming  about  me?  And  as  there  exists  at  present" — 
she  placed  an  annoying  stress  upon  the  last  two  words 
— "a  strong  sympathy  between  you,  so  it  comes  about 
that  I,  as  your  husband's  spiritual  affinity,  am  visible 
to  your  waking  perceptions.  All  the  rest  of  the  time  I 
am  hovering  about  you,  though  unseen." 

' '  I  call  it  detestable ! "  I  retorted  indignantly.  Then  I 
gripped  my  sleeping  husband  by  the  shoulder.  "Wake 
up!  wake  up!"  I  cried  aloud,  wrath  lending  power  to 
my  grasp  and  a  penetrative  quality  to  my  voice.  "Wake 
up  and  leave  off  dreaming!  I  cannot  and  will  not  en- 
dure the  presence  of  this  creature  another  moment ! ' ' 

"Whoa "  muttered  my  husband,  with  the  almost 

inebriate   incoherency  of  slumber,   "  whasamaramy dar- 
ling?" 

"Stop  dreaming  about  that  creature,"  I  cried,  "or  I 
shall  go  home  to  Mamma!" 

"Creature?"  my  husband  echoed,  and  as  he  sat  up  I 
had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  Katie's  misty,  luminous 
form  fade  slowly  into  nothingness. 

"You  know  who  I  mean!"  I  sobbed.  "Katie — your 
spiritual  affinity,  as  she  calls  herself!" 

"You  don't  mean/'  shouted  Vavasour,  now  thor- 
oughly roused,  "that  you  have  seen  her?" 

"I  do  mean  it,"  I  mourned.  "Oh,  if  I  had  only 
known  of  your  having  an  entanglement  with  any  crea- 
ture of  the  kind,  I  would  never  have  married  you — 
never ! ' ' 

"Hang  her!"  burst  out  Vavasour.  Then  he  con- 
trolled himself,  and  said  soothingly:  "After  all,  dear- 
est, there  is  nothing  to  be  jealous  of " 


A    SPIRIT    ELOPEMENT 

"I  jealous!  And  of  that "  I  was  beginning,  but 

Vavasour  went  on : 

''After  all,  she  is  only  a  disembodied  astral  entity 
with  whom  I  became  acquainted — through  my  fifth  prin- 
ciple, which  is  usually  well  developed — in  the  days  when 
I  moved  in  Spiritualistic  society.  She  was,  when  living 
— for  she  died  long  before  I  was  born — a  young  lady 
of  very  good  family.  I  believe  her  father  was  a  clergy- 
man .  .  .  and  I  will  not  deny  that  I  encouraged  her 
visits. ' ' 

"Discourage  them  from  this  day!"  I  said  firmly. 
"Neither  think  of  her  nor  dream  of  her  again,  or  I  will 
have  a  separation." 

"I  will  keep  her,  as  much  as  possible,  out  of  my  wak- 
ing thoughts,"  said  poor  Vavasour,  trying  to  soothe 
me ;  ' '  but  a  man  cannot  control  his  dreams,  and  she  per- 
vades mine  in  a  manner  which,  even  before  our  engage- 
ment, my  pet,  I  began  to  find  annoying.  However,  if  she 
really  is,  as  she  has  told  me,  a  lady  by  birth  and  breed- 
ing, she  will  understand ' ' — he  raised  his  voice  as  though 
she  were  there  and  he  intended  her  to  hear — "that  I 
am  now  a  married  man,  and  from  this  moment  desire 
to  have  no  further  communication  with  her.  Any  suit- 
able provision  it  is  in  my  power  to  make " 

He  ceased,  probably  feeling  the  difficulty  he  would 
have  in  explaining  the  matter  to  his  lawyers;  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  a  faint  mocking  sniggle,  or  rather 
the  auricular  impression  of  it,  echoed  his  words.  Then, 
after  some  more  desultory  conversation,  we  fell  soundly 
asleep.  An  hour  may  have  passed  when  the  same  chilly 
sensation  as  of  a  damp  draft  blowing  across  the  bed 
roused  me.  I  rubbed  my  cheek  and  opened  my  eyes. 
They  met  the  pale,  impertinent  smile  of  the  hateful 
Katie,  who  was  installed  in  her  old  post  beside  Vava- 
sour's end  of  the  bolster. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  in  the  same  soundless  way,  and 


A    SPIRIT    ELOPEMENT  225 

with  a  knowing  little  nod  of  triumph,  "it  is  no  use.  He 
is  dreaming  of  me  again!" 

"Wake  up!"  I  screamed,  snatching  the  pillow  from 
under  my  husband's  head  and  madly  hurling  it  at  the 
shameless  intruder.  This  time  Vavasour  was  almost 
snappish  at  being  disturbed.  Daylight  surprised  us  in 
the  middle  of  our  first  connubial  quarrel.  The  follow- 
ing night  brought  a  repetition  of  the  whole  thing,  and 
so  on,  da  capo,  until  it  became  plain  to  us,  to  our  mutual 
disgust,  that  the  more  Vavasour  strove  to  banish  Katie 
from  his  dreams,  the  more  persistently  she  cropped  up 
in  them.  She  was  the  most  ill-bred  and  obstinate  of 
astrals — Vavasour  and  I  the  most  miserable  of  newly- 
married  people.  A  dozen  times  in  a  night  I  would  be 
roused  by  that  cold  draft  upon  my  cheek,  would  open 
my  eyes  and  see  that  pale,  phosphorescent,  outline 
perched  by  Vavasour's  pillow — nine  times  out  of  the 
dozen  would  be  driven  to  frenzy  by  the  possessive  air 
and  cynical  smile  of  the  spook.  And  although  Vava- 
sour's former  regard  for  her  was  now  converted  into 
hatred,  he  found  the  thought  of  her  continually  invad- 
ing his  waking  mind  at  the  most  unwelcome  seasons. 
She  had  begun  to  appear  to  both  of  us  by  day  as  well  as 
by  night  when  our  poisoned  honeymoon  came  to  an  end, 
and  we  returned  to  town  to  occupy  the  house  which 
Vavasour  had  taken  and  furnished  in  Sloane  Street. 
I  need  only  mention  that  Katie  accompanied  us. 

Insufficient  sleep  and  mental  worry  had  by  this  time 
thoroughly  soured  my  temper  no  less  than  Vavasour's. 
When  I  charged  him  with  secretly  encouraging  the  pres- 
ence I  had  learned  to  hate,  he  rudely  told  me  to  think 
as  I  liked!  He  implored  my  pardon  for  this  brutality 
afterwards  upon  his  knees,  and  with  the  passage  of  time 
I  learned  to  endure  the  presence  of  his  attendant  shade 
with  patience.  When  she  nocturnally  hovered  by  the 
side  of  my  sleeping  spouse,  or  in  constituence  no  less 


226  A    SPIRIT    ELOPEMENT 

filmy  than  a  whiff  of  cigarette-smoke,  appeared  at  his 
elbow  in  the  face  of  day,  I  saw  her  plainly,  and  at 
these  moments  she  would  favor  me  with  a  significant  con- 
traction of  the  eyelid,  which  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
unbecoming  in  a  spirit  who  had  been  a  clergyman's 
daughter.  After  one  of  these  experiences  it  was  that 
the  idea  which  I  afterwards  carried  into  execution  oc- 
curred to  me. 

I  began  by  taking  in  a  few  numbers  of  a  psychological 
publication  entitled  The  Spirit-Lamp.  Then  I  formed 
the  acquaintance  of  Madame  Blavant,  the  renowned  Pro- 
fessoress  of  Spiritualism  and  Theosophy.  Everybody 
has  heard  of  Madame,  many  people  have  read  her  works, 
some  have  heard  her  lecture.  I  had  heard  her  lecture. 
She  was  a  lady  with  a  strong  determined  voice  and 
strong  determined  features.  She  wore  her  plentiful 
gray  hair  piled  in  sibylline  coils  on  the  top  of  her  head, 
and — when  she  lectured — appeared  in  a  white  Oriental 
silk  robe  that  fell  around  her  tall  gaunt  figure  in  im- 
posing folds.  This  robe  was  replaced  by  one  of  black 
satin  when  she  held  her  seances.  At  other  times,  in  the 
seclusion  of  her  study,  she  was  draped  in  an  ample  gown 
of  Indian  chintz  innocent  of  cut,  but  yet  imposing.  She 
smiled  upon  my  new-born  desire  for  psychic  instruction, 
and  when  I  had  subscribed  for  a  course  of  ten  private 
seances  at  so  many  guineas  a  piece  she  smiled  more. 

Madame  lived  in  a  furtive,  retiring  house,  situated 
behind  high  walls  in  Endor  's  Grove,  N.W.  A  long  glass 
tunnel  led  from  the  garden  gate  to  the  street  door,  for 
the  convenience  of  Mahatmas  and  other  persons  who 
preferred  privacy.  I  was  one  of  those  persons,  for 
not  for  spirit  worlds  would  I  have  had  Vavasour  know 
of  my  repeated  visits  to  Endor 's  Grove.  Before  these 
were  over  I  had  grown  quite  indifferent  to  supernat- 
ural manifestations,  banjos  and  accordions  that  were 
thrummed  by  invisible  performers,  blood-red  writing  on 


A    SPIRIT    ELOPEMENT  227 

mediums'  wrists,  mysterious  characters  in  slate-pencil, 
Planchette,  and  the  Table  Alphabet.  And  I  had  made 
and  improved  upon  acquaintance  with  Simon. 

Simon  was  a  spirit  who  found  me  attractive.  He  tried 
in  his  way  to  make  himself  agreeable,  and,  with  my  se- 
cret motive  in  view — let  me  admit  without  a  blush — I 
encouraged  him.  When  I  knew  I  had  him  thoroughly 
in  hand,  I  attended  no  more  seances  at  Endor's  Grove. 
My  purpose  was  accomplished  upon  a  certain  night, 
when,  feeling  my  shoulder  violently  shaken,  I  opened 
the  eyes  which  had  been  closed  in  simulated  slumber  to 
meet  the  indignant  glare  of  my  husband.  I  glanced  over 
his  shoulder.  Katie  did  not  occupy  her  usual  place.  I 
turned  my  glance  towards  the  arm-chair  which  stood  at 
my  side  of  the  bed.  It  was  not  vacant.  As  I  guessed, 
it  was  occupied  by  Simon.  There  he  sat,  the  luminously 
transparent  appearance  of  a  weak-chinned,  mild-looking 
young  clergyman,  dressed  in  the  obsolete  costume  of 
eighty  years  previously.  He  gave  me  a  bow  in  which 
respect  mingled  with  some  degree  of  complacency,  and 
glanced  at  Vavasour. 

"I  have  been  explaining  matters  to  your  husband," 
he  said,  in  that  soundless  spirit-voice  with  which  Katie 
had  first  made  me  acquainted.  "He  understands  that  I 
am  a  clergyman  and  a  reputable  spirit,  drawn  into  your 
life-orbit  by  the  irresistible  attraction  which  your  me- 
diumistic  organization  exercises  over  my " 

' '  There,  you  hear  what  he  says ! "  I  interrupted,  nod- 
ding confirmatively  at  Vavasour.  "Do  let  me  go  to 
sleep!" 

' '  What,  with  that  intrusive  beast  sitting  beside  you  ? ' ' 
shouted  Vavasour  indignantly.  "Never!" 

"Think  how  many  months  I  have  put  up  with  the 
presence  of  Katie ! ' '  said  I.  ' '  After  all,  it 's  only  tit  for 
tat!"  And  the  ghost  of  a  twinkle  in  Simon's  pale  eye 
seemed  to  convey  that  he  enjoyed  the  retort. 


228  A    SPIRIT    ELOPEMENT 

Vavasour  grunted  sulkily,  and  resumed  his  recumbent 
position.  But  several  times  that  night  he  awakened  me 
with  renewed  objurgations  of  Simon,  who  with  unflinch- 
ing resolution  maintained  his  post.  Later  on  I  started 
from  sleep  to  find  Katie's  usual  seat  occupied.  She 
looked  less  pert  and  confident  than  usual,  I  thought,  and 
rather  humbled  and  fagged,  as  though  she  had  had  some 
trouble  in  squeezing  her  way  into  Vavasour's  sleeping 
thoughts.  By  day,  after  that  night,  she  seldom  ap- 
peared. My  husband's  brain  was  too  much  occupied 
with  Simon,  who  assiduously  haunted  me.  And  it  was 
now  my  turn  to  twit  Vavasour  with  unreasonable  jeal- 
ousy. Yet  though  I  gloried  in  the  success  of  my  strata- 
gem, the  continual  presence  of  that  couple  of  spooks  was 
an  unremitting  strain  upon  my  nerves. 

But  at  length  an  extraordinary  conviction  dawned  on 
my  mind,  and  became  stronger  with  each  successive 
night.  Between  Simon  and  Katie  an  acquaintance  had 
sprung  up.  I  would  awaken,  or  Vavasour  would  arouse, 
to  find  them  gazing  across  the  barrier  of  the  bolster 
which  divided  them  with  their  pale  negatives  of  eyes, 
and  chatting  in  still,  spirit  voices.  Once  I  started  from 
sleep  to  find  myself  enveloped  in  a  kind  of  mosquito- 
tent  of  chilly,  filmy  vapor,  and  the  conviction  rushed 
upon  me  that  He  and  She  had  leaned  across  our  couch 
and  exchanged  an  intangible  embrace.  Katie  was  the 
leading  spirit  in  this,  I  feel  convinced — there  was  no 
effrontery  about  Simon.  Upon  the  next  night  I,  waking, 
overheard  a  fragment  of  conversation  between  them 
which  plainly  revealed  how  matters  stood. 

"We  should  never  have  met  upon  the  same  plane," 
remarked  Simon  silently,  "but  for  the  mediumistic  in- 
tervention of  these  people.  Of  the  man" — he  glanced 
slightingly  towards  Vavasour — ' '  I  cannot  truthfully  say 
I  think  much.  The  lady" — he  bowed  in  my  direction — 
"is  everything  that  a  lady  should  be!" 


A    SPIRIT    ELOPEMENT  229 

"You  are  infatuated  with  her,  it  is  plain!"  snapped 
Katie,  ' '  and  the  sooner  you  are  removed  from  her  sphere 
of  influence  the  better." 

' '  Her  power  with  me  is  weakening, ' '  said  Simon,  ' '  as 
Vavasour's  is  with  you.  Our  outlines  are  no  longer  so 
clear  as  they  used  to  be,  which  proves  that  our  astral 
individualities  are  less  strongly  impressed  upon  the 
brains  of  our  earthly  sponsors  than  they  were.  We  are 

still  materialized;  but  how  long  this  will  continue " 

He  sighed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

' '  Don 't  let  us  wait  for  a  formal  dismissal,  then, ' '  said 
Katie  boldly.  "Let  us  throw  up  our  respective  situa- 
tions." 

' '  I  remember  enough  of  the  Marriage  Service  to  make 
our  union,  if  not  regular,  at  least  respectable, ' '  said  Si- 
mon. 

' '  And  I  know  quite  a  fashionable  place  on  the  Outside 
Edge  of  Things,  where  we  could  settle  down,"  said 
Katie,  "and  live  practically  on  nothing." 

I  blinked  at  that  moment.  When  I  saw  the  room 
again  clearly,  the  chairs  beside  our  respective  pillows 
were  empty. 

Years  have  passed,  and  neither  Vavasour  nor  myself 
has  ever  had  a  glimpse  of  the  spirits  whom  we  were  the 
means  of  introducing  to  one  another.  We  are  quite 
content  to  know  ourselves  deprived  for  ever  of  their 
company.  Yet  sometimes,  when  I  look  at  our  three  ba- 
bies, I  wonder  whether  that  establishment  of  Simon's 
and  Katie's  on  the  Outside  Edge  of  Things  includes  a 
nursery. 


THE  WIDOW'S  MITE 

PEOPLE  bestowed  that  nickname  upon  little  Lord  Gar- 
lingham  years  ago,  when  he  was  the  daintiest  of  human 
playthings  ever  adored  by  a  young  mother.  Shutting 
my  eyes,  I  can  recall  him,  all  golden  curls  and  frills,  sit- 
ting on  the  front  seat  of  the  victoria  with  Toto,  the  Mal- 
tese. Japanese  pugs  had  not  then  come  into  fashion, 
nor  the  ubiquitous  automobile.  Gar  is  the  Widow 's  Mite 
still,  but  for  other  reasons.  He  was  a  charming,  irreso- 
lute, impulsive  child,  who  invariably  meant  "maca- 
roons" when  he  said  "sponge  cake."  It  recurs  to  me 
that  he  was  passionately  fond  of  dolls,  not  nigger  Sambo 
dolls,  or  sailor  dolls,  or  Punchinelli  with  curved  caps 
and  bells,  or  policemen  with  large  feet  so  cunningly 
weighted  that  it  is  next  door  to  impossible  to  knock  them 
over,  but  frilled  and  furbelowed  dollies  of  the  gentler 
sex.  There  was  a  blue  princess  in  tulle  with  a  glass 
chandelier-drop  tiara,  and  a  dancing  girl  in  pink,  and 
a  stout,  shapeless,  rag  lady,  whose  features  were  painted 
on  the  calico  ball  that  represented  her  head,  and  whose 
hair  resembled  the  fringe  of  a  black  woollen  shawl. 
Holding  her  by  one  leg,  Gar  would  sink  to  sleep  upon 
his  lace-trimmed  pillows  in  a  halo  of  shining  curls,  and 
Lady  Garlingham  's  last  new  friend  or  latest  new  adorer 
would  be  brought  up  to  the  night  nursery  for  an  after- 
dinner  peep  at  "my  precious  in  his  cot." 

"My  precious"  was  equally  charming  in  his  Eton 
days,  when  his  sleepy  green  eyes  looked  up  at  you  from 
under  a  lock  of  fair  silky  hair  that  was  never  to  be  kept 

230 


THE    WIDOW'S    MITE  231 

within  regulation  School  bounds,  but  continually  strayed 
upon  the  fair,  if  freckled,  expanse  of  a  brow  which  might 
have  been  the  home  of  a  pure  and  innocent  mind,  and 
probably  was  not.  He  had  a  pleasant  treble  boy's  voice 
and  a  beautiful  smile,  particularly  when  his  mother  told 
him  he  might  smoke  just  one  cigarette,  of  her  own  spe- 
cial brand,  as  a  great  treat. 

' '  Mother 's  are  hay, ' '  he  said  afterwards  in  confidence, 
and  added  that  he  preferred  cut  Cavendish,  and  that  the 
best  way  to  induce  a  meerschaum  to  color  was  to  smoke 
it  foul,  and  never  to  remove  the  dottle.  But  Lady  Gar- 
lingham  was  never  the  wiser.  She  had  the  utmost  faith 
in  her  boy. 

"Gar  will  be  a  dab  at  Classics,"  she  said  with  pride. 
"  Fancy  his  knowing  that  Dido  was  a  heathen  goddess, 
and  Procrustes  was  a  Grecian  King  who  murdered  his 
mother  and  afterwards  put  out  his  own  eyes!  I  must 
really  give  his  tutor  a  hint  not  to  bring  him  on  too  fast. 
He  will  have  to  make  his  own  way  in  the  world,  poor 
dear,  that  is  certain;  but  I  don't  want  him  to  turn  out 
a  literary  genius  with  eccentric  clothes,  or  anything  in 
the  scientific  line  that  isn't  careful  about  its  nails  and 
doesn  't  comb  its  hair. ' ' 

Garlingham's  clothes  are  always  of  the  latest  fashion 
and  in  the  most  admirable  taste.  His  hair  is  as  well 
groomed,  his  hands  are  as  immaculate  as  any  mother's 
heart  could  desire,  and  he  has  not  turned  out  a  genius. 
During  his  career  at  Oxford  he  did  not  allow  his  love  of 
study  to  interfere  with  the  more  serious  pursuit  of  ath- 
letic distinction.  He  left  the  University  unburdened 
with  honors,  carrying  in  his  wake  a  string  of  bills  as  long 
as  a  kite 's  tail.  Relieved  of  this  by  the  sacrifice  of  some 
of  Lady  Garlingham's  diamonds,  the  kite  shot  up  into 
the  empyrean  in  the  wake  of  a  dazzling  star  of  the  comic- 
opera  stage. 

"But,    thank    Heaven,    the    boy    has    principles," 


232  THE    WIDOW'S    MITE 

breathed  Lady  Garlingham.  "He  never  dreamed  of 
marrying  her!" 

Garlingham  descended  from  the  skies  ere  long,  tan- 
gled in  a  telegraphic  wire,  and  went  into  the  Diplomatic 
Service.  He  became  fourth  under-secretary  at  an  Im- 
perial foreign  Embassy,  in  virtue  of  the  marriage  of  his 
maternal  aunt  with  Prince  John  Schulenstorff-Wangel- 
brode  (who  was  Military  Attache  in  the  days  of  the 
pannier  and  the  polonaise,  the  bustle  and  the  fringed 
whip-parasol).  I  have  not  the  least  idea  in  what  Gar- 
lingham's  duties  consisted,  and  the  dear  fellow  was 
diplomatically  reticent  when  sounded  on  the  subject ;  but 
of  one  thing  I  am  sure,  that  few  young  men  have  worn 
an  official  button  and  lapels  with  greater  ease  and  dis- 
tinction. He  quite  adored  his  mother,  and  made  her  his 
confidante  in  all  his  love  affairs.  Indeed  I  believe  Lady 
Garlingham  kept  a  little  register  of  these  at  one  time 
on  the  sticks  of  an  ivory  fan — those  that  were  going  off, 
those  that  were  in  full  bloom,  and  those  that  were  just 
coming  on ;  and  posted  up  dates  and  set  down  names  with 
the  utmost  regularity. 

For,  like  the  typical  butterfly,  Garlingham  sipped 
every  flower  and  changed  every  hour.  A  very  mature 
Polly  has  now  his  passion  requited,  and  if  human  hap- 
piness depended  on  avoirdupois,  and  it  were  an  estab- 
lished mathematical  fact  that  the  felicity  of  the  object 
attracted  may  be  calculated  by  the  dimensions  of  the 
object  attracting,  then  is  the  handsome  boy  I  used  to 
tip  a  happy  man  indeed. 

For  Gar,  "that  pocket  edition  of  Apollo,"  as  a  Eoyal 
personage  with  a  happy  knack  at  nicknames  termed  him 
— Gar  has  married  a  middle-aged,  not  too  good-looking, 
extremely  fat  widow,  unknown  to  fame  as  Mrs.  Rollo 
Polkingham.  The  couple  were  Hanover  Squared  in 
June.  Leila  and  Sheila  Polkingham  made  the  loveliest 


THE    WIDOW'S    MITE  233 

pair  of  Dresden  china  bridesmaids  imaginable,  and  a 
Bishop  tied  the  knot,  assisted  by  the  brother  of  the  bride, 
the  Reverend  Michael  O'Halloran,  of  Mount  Slattery, 
County  Quare,  a  surpliced  brogue  with  a  Trinity  Col- 
lege B.A.  hood.  The  hymns  that  were  sung  by  the  choir 
during  the  ceremony  were,  ' '  The  Voice  that  Breathed, ' ' 
and  "Fight  the  Good  Fight,"  and  the  bride  looked  quite 
as  bridal  as  might  have  been  expected  of  a  thirty-eight 
inch  girth  arrayed  in  the  latest  heliotrope  shade.  She 
became  peony,  Garlingham  pale  blue,  when  the  moment 
arrived  for  him  to  pronounce  his  vows,  and  a  voice — a 
high,  nasal  voice  of  the  penetrating,  saw-edged  American 
kind — said,  several  pews  behind,  quite  audibly:  "Well, 
I  call  it  child-stealing!" 

The  owner  of  that  voice  was  at  the  reception  in  Ches- 
terfield Crescent.  So  was  I,  and  when  Garlingham 
thanked  me  for  a  silver  cigar-box  I  had  sent  him  in  mem- 
ory of  our  old  friendship,  his  hand  was  damp  and  clam- 
my, though  he  smiled.  The  Dowager  Lady  Garlingham, 
looking  much  younger  than  her  daughter-in-law,  floated 
across  to  ask  me  why  I  never  came  to  see  her  now,  and 
Gar  drifted  away.  Later,  I  had  a  fleeting  glimpse  of 
the  bridegroom  standing  in  the  large,  cool  shadow  of 
his  newly-made  bride,  looking  helplessly  from  one  to 
the  other  of  his  recently-acquired  stepdaughters.  Then 
my  circular  gaze  met  and  merged  in  the  still  attractive 
eyes  of  Lady  Garlingham. 

"You  heard,"  she  breathed  in  her  old  confidential 
way,  ' '  what  that  very  outspoken  person — I  think  a  Miss 
Van  Something,  from  Philadelphia — said  in  church?" 

' '  I  did  hear, ' '  I  returned,  ' '  and,  while  I  deplored  her 
candor,  I  could  not  but  admit " 

"That  she  had  hit  off  the  situation  with  dreadful 
accuracy — I  felt  that,  too,"  sighed  Gar's  mother. 

"We  are  old  friends,  or  were,"  said  I,  for  people  al- 


THE    WIDOW'S    MITE 

ways  became  sentimental  in  the  vicinity  of  Lady  Gar- 
lingham.  ' '  Tell  me  how  it  happened ! ' ' 

"Oh,  how "  Lady  Garlingham  adroitly  turned  a 

slight  groan  into  a  little  cough.  "Indeed,  I  hardly  know. 
All  that  seems  burned  into  me  is  that  I  have  become  a 
dowager  without  adequate  cause." 

Her  pretty  brown  eyebrows  crumpled ;  she  dabbed  her 
still  charming  eyes  with  an  absurd  little  lace  handker- 
chief. She  wore  a  wonderful  dress  of  something  filmy 
in  Watteau  blue,  and  a  Lamballe  hat  with  a  paradis. 
Through  innumerable  veils  of  tulle  her  complexion  was 
really  wonderful,  considering,  and  her  superb  hair  still 
tawny  gold. 

"Don't  look  at  me  and  ask  yourself  why  I've  never 
married  again,"  she  commanded,  in  the  old  petulant 
way.  "For  Gar's  sake,  is  the  stereotyped  answer  to 

that.  And  when  I  look  at  her "  She  dabbed  away 

a  tear  with  the  absurd  little  handkerchief.  ' '  She  hasn  't 
had  the  indecency  to  call  me  'Mother'  yet.  .  .  .  But 
she  will,  I  know  she  will!  If  she  doesn't,  she  is  more 
than  human.  I  have  said  such  things  to  her." 

"I  can  quite  believe  it,"  I  agreed. 

Champagne  cups  were  going  about ;  infinitesimal  sand- 
wiches, tabloids  of  condensed  indigestion,  were  being 
washed  down.  The  best  man,  an  Attache  friend  of  Gar- 
lingham's,  brandishing  a  silver-handled  carving-knife, 
was  encouraging  the  bridling  bride  to  attack  the  cake. 
Sheila  and  Leila  hovered  near  with  silver  baskets,  and 
Garlingham,  with  the  merest  shadow  of  his  old  easy 
insouciance,  was  replying  to  the  statute  and  legendary 
chaff  of  the  other  men. 

"You  know  he  was  engaged  to  the  second  girl,  Sheila, 
first  ? ' '  went  on  Lady  Garlingham  plaintively. 

I  had  not  known  it,  and  it  gave  me  a  thrill. 

"Indeed!"  I  said  in  a  tone  of  polite  inquiry. 

"When  he  was  a  very  little  boy,  and  I  took  him  into 


THE    WIDOW'S    MITE  235 

a  shop  to  buy  a  toy,"  said  poor  Lady  Garlingham,  "he 
always  was  in  raptures  with  it,  whatever  it  was,  until 
we  were  half-way  home,  and  then  nothing  would  satisfy 
him  but  the  carriage  being  turned  round  and  driven 
back,  so  that  he  might  exchange  the  thing  for  something 
he  had  particularly  disliked  at  first." 

I  recalled  the  trait  in  my  own  experience  of  my  young 
friend. 

"Ah,  yes.  He  always  took  pralines  when  he  really 
wanted  chocolate  fondants,"  sighed  his  mother.  "And 
then — but  perhaps  you  have  forgotten — the  dolls?" 

I  had  forgotten  the  dolls.  I  suppose  I  gaped  rather 
stupidly. 

"He  had  three/'  gulped  Lady  Garlingham.  "He 
chose  the  blue  one  first,  and  then,  when  we  had  just 
reached  Hyde  Park  Gate,  he  cried,  and  said  it  was  the 
pink  one  he  had  wanted  all  along.  So  we  went  back  and 
got  her,  and  drove  home  to  lunch,  which,  of  course,  was 
Gar's  dinner.  And  then,  if  you  had  seen  him,  poor  dar- 
ling,"— her  maternal  bosom  heaved  with  a  repressed 
sob — "with  his  underlip  turned  down  in  a  quite  South 
Sea  Island  way,  and  the  tears  tumbling  into  his  rice 
pudding  because  the  blue  creature  was  absolutely  his 
ideal  from  the  first,  you  would  have  been  foolish  enough 
to  order  the  carriage  and  drive  him  back  to  the  Regent 
Street  toyshop." 

"As  you  did?" 

"As  I  did,"  admitted  Lady  Garlingham. 

' '  With  the  result  that  might  have  been  expected  ? ' ' 

"With  the  result  that  seems  to  me  now  to  be  a  hate- 
ful foreshadowing  of  what  was  to  be  my  poor  darling's 
fate  in  life, ' '  said  the  poor  darling 's  mother.  ...  "  No, 
thank  you,  Sheila  dear,  I  positively  could  not  touch  it, ' ' 
she  added,  as  the  cake-basket  came  our  way.  ' '  Not  even 
to  dream  on — I  have  quite  done  with  dreaming  now." 

"But  how,"  I  asked  hypercritically,  "could  Garling- 


236  THE    WIDOW'S    MITE 

ham's  subsequent  choice  of  the  blue  doll,  originally  dis- 
carded in  favor  of  the  pink,  foreshadow  his  ultimate 
fate  in  life?" 

"Oh,  don't  you  understand?"  quavered  poor  Lady 
Garlingham.  "He  went  into  the  toyshop  by  himself, 
and  came  marching  out  with  what  the  Americans  call  a 
rag-baby,  the  most  odious,  distorted,  shapeless  horror  you 
can  imagine.  It  fascinated  him  by  its  sheer  ugliness. 
He  was  obsessed,  magnetized,  compelled.  ...  As  in  this 
case!"  A  burst  of  confidence  broke  down  the  flood- 
gates of  the  poor  woman's  reserve.  She  grasped  me  by 
the  arm  as  she  gurgled  out  hysterically — rocking  her 
slight  form  to  and  fro:  "My  dear,  she  is  the  rag-doll, 
this  awful  widow  creature  Garlingham  has  married. 
And  to  his  fatal  curse  of  indecision  he  owes  the  Incubus 
that  is  crushing  him  to-day. ' ' 

The  bride  had  tripped  upstairs  to  put  on  her  going- 
away  gown,  attended  by  Leila  and  Sheila  and  some 
freshly-married  women,  who  meant  to  struggle  for  the 
slippers  for  second  choice. 

Loud,  explosive  bursts  of  jeering  merriment  came 
from  the  dining-room,  where  most  of  the  men  of  the 
party  had  congregated.  An  exhausted  maid  and  a  very 
obvious  private  detective  hovered  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  display  of  wedding  presents,  and  through  the 
open  door  of  the  drawing-room  one  caught  a  glimpse  of 
suspiciously  new  luggage  piled  up  in  the  hall,  and  a 
little  group  of  youths  and  maidens  of  the  callower  kind, 
who  were  industriously  packing  the  sunshades  and  um- 
brellas in  the  holdalls  with  rice  and  confetti. 

"My  poor,  poor  boy  has  been  in  and  out  of  love  hun- 
dreds of  times, ' '  moaned  the  despairing  Dowager,  ' '  with- 
out once  having  been  actually  engaged.  So  that  when  I 
saw  Gar  with  these  three  women  sitting  on  four  green 
chairs  in  the  Park  in  May,  I  was  not  seriously  alarmed. 
Georgiana  Bayham  told  me  that  the  stout  woman  with 


THE    WIDOW'S    MITE  237 

too  many  bangles  was  a  Mrs.  Kollo  Polkingham,  a  widow, 
of  whom  nobody  who  might  with  truth  be  styled  any- 
body had  ever  heard,  and  that  she  had  a  wild,  jungly 
house  in  Chesterfield  Crescent — (don't  those  climbing 
peacocks  in  the  wall-paper  set  your  teeth  on  edge?) — 
and  always  asked  young  men  to  call — and  wanted  to 
know  their  intentions  at  the  third  visit.  ...  'I  would 
give  this  turquoise  charm  off  my  porte-bonheur,'  said 
Georgiana,  in  her  loud,  bubbling  voice,  'to  know  which, 
of  the  two  daughters  Gar  is  smitten  with.  The  girl  with 
the  eyes  like  black  ballot-balls,  or  the  other  with  the 
Gaiety  smile. '  .  .  .  My  dear,  it  was  the  dark  one,  Leila, 
as  it  happened.  Not  that  Gar  flirted  desperately.  But 
they  went  to  Hurlingham  and  lunched  at  Prince's,  and 
then  the  mother  thought  my  boy  hooked,  and 
struck " 

"Asked  his  intentions?"  I  hinted. 

"I  knew  something  had  happened,"  said  Gar's 
mother,  "when  he  came  in  to  tea  with  me  that  very 
afternoon.  'Mother,  am  I  a  villain?'  were  his  very 
words.  '  No,  dear, '  I  said,  '  do  you  feel  like  one  ? '  Then 
it  came  out  that  the  Polkingham  woman  had  asked  his 
intentions  with  regard  to  Leila;  and  never  having  had 
such  a  thing  done  to  him  before,  poor,  dear  boy !  Gar  was 
quite  prostrated.  He  did  not  deny  that  he  found  the 
eldest  Polkingham  girl  attractive,  but  secretly  he  had 
been  more  closely  drawn  to  the  second,  Sheila. ' ' 

"The  pink  doll,"  I  murmured. 

' '  He  behaved  with  the  nicest  honor  in  the  matter, ' '  de- 
clared Lady  Garlingham.  "When  he  told  me  he  was 
really  in  love  with  Sheila,  and  could  never  be  happy  un- 
til he  had  married  her — and  how  a  young  woman  with 
such  a  muddy  complexion  could  inspire  such  a  passion  I 
don't  pretend  to  know — I  said:  'Very  well,  you  have 
my  permission  to  tell  her  so.  I  shall  never  stand  in  the 
way  of  your  happiness,  my  son — although  these  people 


238  THE    WIDOW'S    MITE 

are  not  in  Our  Set.'  If  you  had  seen  his  shining  eyes. 
If  you  had  heard  the  thrill  in  his  voice  as  he  said,  '  What 
a  rattling  good  sort  you  are,  mother!'  you  would  have 
felt  with  me  that  the  sacrifice  was  worth  it.  And  then 
he  rushed  off  in  a  hansom  to  declare  himself."  Lady 
Garlingham  clutched  my  arm  painfully. 

"To  declare  himself  to  Sheila?" 

"And  came  back  within  the  space  of  half  an  hour 
engaged  to  Leila,"  panted  Lady  Garlingham.  "No, 
don't  laugh!" 

"The  b-blue  d-doll!"  I  gasped. 

"He  was  as  pale  as  death!"  said  his  mother.  "He 
had  found  Leila  in  the  drawing-room  in  a  becoming  half- 
light,  and  been  taken  off  his  guard." 

' '  And  metaphorically  he  told  the  shop  woman  he  would 
prefer  that  one, ' '  I  said  shakily.  ' '  I  understand !  Was 
he  very  unhappy  over  his  bargain?" 

"Frightfully  out  of  sorts  and  off  color,"  said  the 
wooer's  mother,  "until  at  a  crisis,  a  month  later,  I 
nerved  him  to  go  and  see  the  mother  and  explain  the 
mistake. ' ' 

"And  did  he?" 

"I  will  say  Mrs.  Polkingham  took  the  revelation  in 
good  part, ' '  said  Lady  Garlingham.  ' '  Leila  cried  a  good 
deal,  I  believe,  when  she  turned  Gar  over  to  Sheila,  and1 
Sheila  was  not  disagreeably  inclined  to  crow.  I  must 
give  the  girls  credit  for  their  behavior.  As  for  Gar,  he 
was  the  very  picture  of  young,  ardent  happiness. 
'  Mother, '  I  can  hear  him  saying,  '  thanks  to  you,  I  have 
won  the  dearest  and  loveliest  girl  in  the  world.'  (Poor 
boy ! )  '  And  I  'm  as  happy  as  a  gardener. '  ' 

1 '  Did  that  phase  last  long  ? "  I  queried,  with  twitching 
facial  muscles. 

' '  He  began  to  flag,  as  it  were,  in  about  six  weeks, ' '  said 
Garlingham 's  mother  mournfully.  "My  poor,  affection- 
ate, wobbly  boy.  The  sky  of  his  simple  happiness  was 
overcast.  There  came  a  day  when  the  floodgates  of  his 


THE    WIDOW'S    MITE  239 

resolve  to  go  through  with  everything  at  any  cost — sac- 
rifice himself  for  the  sake  of  his  duty  and  for  the  credit 
of  his  family  name " 

"Noblesse  oblige,"  I  stammered  chokily.  "Noblesse 
oblige." 

"The  floodgates  were  broken  down,"  said  his  mother, 
with  a  tremble  in  her  voice.  "His  heart  reverted  with 
a  bound  to  the — the  other — to  Leila." 

"To  the  blue  doll!"  I  spluttered. 

"When  he  entreated  me,"  went  on  Lady  Garlingham, 
"begged  me  even  with  tears  to  be  his  ambassadress  to 
Leila,  I  grieve  to  say  that  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  I 
failed  to  rise  to  the  occasion  of  his  need.  I  said :  '  I  shall 
do  nothing  of  the  kind.  Get  out  of  the  muddle  as  you 
can — /  wash  my  hands  of  it.'  And  he  thought  me  very 
hard  and  very  unfeeling,  I  know;  but  even  when  the 
bouleversement  was  managed  for  the  third  time,  I  could 
not  bring  myself  to  regard  the  position  from  my  usually 
philosophical  point  of  view.  It  was  too  cruel.  The  re- 
transfer  of  the  engagement-ring,  for  instance " 

' '  Ah,  true, ' '  I  murmured,  ' '  and  the  presents ! ' ' 

"Too  painful!"  sighed  Lady  Garlingham.  "It  was 
ultimately  arranged  by  Gar's  buying  a  new  ring,  and 
Sheila's  dropping  the  old  one  into  the  almsbag  at  St. 
Baverstock 's.  Poor  girl!  I  will  say  her  demeanor  in 
the  trying  circumstances  was  admirable." 

"As  for  the  other?"  I  hinted. 

"Leila  is  not  a  refined  type  of  girl/'  said  Lady  Gar- 
lingham decidedly.  "Her  whole  expression  was  that  of 
a  Bank  Holiday  tripper  young  person  who  has  just  dis- 
mounted from  one  of  those  giddy-go-rounds.  Boat- 
swings  might  impart  the  dazed  look.  The  mother  seemed 
harassed.  As  for  Gar " 

I  guessed  what  was  coming,  but  I  would  not  have 
missed  hearing  Lady  Garlingham  tell  it  for  worlds. 

"There  came  a  day — a  dreadful,  dreadful  day,"  she 
said,  with  pale  lips,  "when  Gar  told  me  that  his  life  was 


240  THE    WIDOW'S    MITE 

ruined  unless  he  changed  back!  We  had  a  dreadful 
scene,  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  had  hysterics. 
Then  the  unhappy  boy  tore  from  the  house — venire  a 
terre — leaving  me  a  perfect  wreck,  held  up  by  my  maid 
Pinner — you  know  Pinner?" 

I  nodded  speechlessly. 

"My  wretched  boy  tore  from  the  house,  jumped  into 
his  'Gohard, '  which  was  standing  at  the  door — hurtled 
to  Chesterfield  Crescent — told  the  painful  truth " 

"Swopped  dolls  yet  once  again,  and  came  back  with 
the  rag-baby,"  I  gasped. 

"And  now,"  groaned  Lady  Garlingham,  "he  has  to 
carry  it  through  life ! ' ' 

There  was  a  gabbling  on  the  upper  landing.  The 
bride  was  coming  down  in  a  white  cut-cloth,  tailor-made 
gown  and  a  picture  hat,  Leila  and  Sheila  and  a  bonneted 
maid  following.  The  bridegroom,  in  immaculate  tweeds, 
appeared  at  a  lower  door,  the  smug  face  of  his  valet 
behind  him.  There  was  a  rush  of  women,  an  insane 
kissing  and  shaking  of  hands,  a  glare  of  red  carpet,  a 
flapping  of  striped  awning.  Rice  and  confetti  impreg- 
nated the  air,  the  doorsteps  were  swamped  with  smartly- 
dressed  people.  The  chauffeur  of  Gar 's  ' '  Gohard ' '  witk 
a  giant  favor  in  the  buttonhole  of  his  livery  coat  grinned 
when  Garlingham  leaped  tigerishly  upon  him  and  tore 
it  from  his  chest.  The  automobile  moved  on,  pursued 
by  farewells.  Some  one  had  thoughtfully  attached  two 
slippers  to  its  rearward  steps,  a  stout,  elderly,  white 
satin  slipper  and  a  slim  masculine,  evening  shoe  of  the 
pump  kind,  almost  new. 

"Say!"  said  the  saw-edged  American  voice  I  had 
heard  in  the  church — "say,  won't  the  car-conductor  al- 
low she 's  traveling  with  her  little  boy  ?  What  will  folks 
call  him,  anyhow?" 

My  mouth  was  on  a  level  with  the  speaker 's  back  hair. 

"The  Widow's  Mite,"  I  said  aloud— and  fled. 


SUSANNA  AND  HER  ELDERS 


THE  Earl  of  Beaumaris,  a  worthy  and  imposing  person- 
age, flushed  from  the  nape  of  his  neck  to  the  high  sum- 
mit of  his  cranium — premature  baldness  figured  amongst 
the  family  heredities — paced,  in  creaking  patent-leather 
boots,  up  and  down  the  castle  library — a  noble  apart- 
ment of  Tudor  design,  lined  with  rare  and  antique  vol- 
umes into  which  none  ever  looked.  There  were  other 
persons  present  beside  the  Dowager  Countess,  and,  to 
judge  by  the  strainedly  polite  expression  of  their  faces, 
the  squeaking  leather  must  have  been  playing  havoc  with 
their  nerves. 

"Gustavus,"  said  the  Dowager  at  length,  "you're  an 
English  Peer  in  your  own  castle,  and  not  a  pointsman  on 
a  Broadway  block,  unless  I'm  considerably  mistaken. 
Sit  down!" 

' '  Mother,  I  will  not  be  defied ! ' '  said  Lord  Beaumaris. 
' '  I  will  not  be  bearded  by  my  own  child — a  mere  chit  of 
a  girl !  Had  Susanna  been  a  boy  I  should  have  known 
how  to  deal  with  this  spirit  of  insubordination.  Being 
a  girl — and  moreover,  motherless — I  abandon  her  to  you. 
She  has  many  things  to  learn,  but  let  the  first  lesson  you 
inculcate  be  this — that  I  positively  refuse  to  be  defied ! ' ' 

"The  child  has,  I  gather,  gone  out  to  take  the  air 
when  she  ought  to  have  stayed  in  and  taken  a  scolding, ' ' 
said  Lady  Beaumaris.  "Does  anybody  know  of  her 
whereabouts  ? ' ' 

241 


SUSANNA    AND    HER    ELDERS 

Alaric  Osmond-Omer,  a  languid,  drab-complexioned, 
light-haired  man  of  aristocratic  appearance,  never  seen 
without  the  smoked  eyeglass  that  concealed  a  diabolic 
squint,  spoke: 

"I  saw  her  in  a  crimson  golfing-jacket  and  a  white 
Tam-o'-shanter  crossing  the  upper  terrace.  She  car- 
ried an  alpenstock,  and  was  followed  by  quite  a  pack 
of  dogs — incorporated  in  the  body  of  one  extraordinary 
mongrel  which  I  have  occasionally  observed  about  the 
stable-yards.  I  gathered  that  she  was  going  for  a  climb 
upon  the  cliffs.  That  was  about  half  an  hour  ago ! ' ' 

"Alaric,  you  have  attended  every  Family  Council 
that  I  recollect  since  I  became  a  member  of  this  family, 
and  have  never  before  opened  your  lips,"  said  Lady 
Beaumaris,  fixing  the  unfortunate  Alaric  with  her  eye, 
which  was  still  black  and  snappingly  bright.  "Make 
this  occasion  memorable  by  offering  a  suggestion.  You 
really  owe  us  one ! ' ' 

Everybody  present  looked  at  Alaric,  who  smiled  help- 
lessly and  dropped  his  eyeglass,  revealing  the  physical 
peculiarity  it  concealed.  The  effect  of  the  diabolic 
squint,  in  combination  with  his  mild  features  and  some- 
what foolish  expression,  conveyed  a  general  impression 
of  reserve  force.  He  spoke,  fumbling  for  the  missing 
article,  which  had  plunged  rapturously  into  his  bosom, 
with  long,  trim  fingers,  encrusted  with  mourning  rings. 

"The  question  at  issue  is — unless  I  have  failed  in  my 
mental  digest  of  the  situation — how  to  bring  Susanna 
Viscountess  Lymston — pardon  me  if  I  indulge  a  little 
my  weakness  for  prolixity " 

The  door  creaked,  and  Alaric  broke  off. 

"My  dear  man,"  said  the  Dowager,  "I  never  before 
heard  you  utter  a  sentence  of  more  than  two  words' 
length!" 

" — To  bring  Susanna,  who  is  just  seventeen  and 
fiercely  virginal  in  her  expressed  aversion  to,  and  avoid- 


SUSANNA    AND    HER    ELDERS      243 

ance  of,  ordinary,  everyday  Man — into  compliance  with 
your  paternal  wishes" — Alaric  bowed  to  Lord  Beau- 
maris — "where  the  encouragement  of  a  suitor  is  con- 
cerned ! ' ' 

"I  have  appealed  to  her  filial  feelings — which  do  not 
appear  to  exist,"  said  Lord  Beaumaris;  "I  have  ap- 
pealed to  her  reason — I  doubt  gravely  whether  the  girl 
possesses  any:  'There  is  too  much  landed  property, 
there  are  too  many  houses  and  too  many  heirlooms,  and 
there  is  not  enough  ready  money  to  keep  things  going,' 
I  said.  Her  reply  was :  '  Sell  some  of  the  land  and  some 
of  the  houses  and  all  of  the  pictures,  and  then  there  will 
be  enough  to  keep  up  the  rest.'  'My  dear  child,  is  it 
possible,'  I  said,  'that  at  your  age,  and  occupying  the 
position  you  occupy,  you  have  no  idea  of  what  is  meant 
by  an  Entail  ? '  Then  I  made  her  sit  down  here,  in  this 
library,  opposite  me,  and  laid  plainly  before  her  why  it 
is  necessary  for  her,  as  my  daughter,  to  marry,  and  to 
marry  Wealth,  Position,  and  Title.  Before  I  had  ended 
she  rose  with  a  flaming  face  and  burst  into  an  hysterical 
tirade,  which  lasted  ten  minutes.  I  gather  that  she  was 
willing  to  marry  Sir  Prosper  Le  Gai  or  the  Knight  of 
the  Swan  if  either  of  these  gentlemen  proposed  for  her 
hand.  Neither  being  available,  she  intends,  I  gather,  to 
write  great  poems,  or  paint  great  pictures,  or  go  upon 
the  stage.  ...  Go  upon  the  stage!  My  blood  curdled 
at  the  bare  idea.  It  is  still  in  that  unpleasant  condi- 
tion." Lord  Beaumaris  shuddered  violently,  and 
pressed  his  handkerchief  to  his  nose.  "If  you  have  any 
advice  to  give,  Alaric,"  he  said  bluntly,  "oblige  us  by 
giving  it.  We  are  at  a  positive  crux!" 

The  drab-complexioned,  light-haired  Alaric  responded : 
"In  my  poor  opinion — which  may  be  crassly  wrong — 
too  much  stress  has  been  laid  upon  the  necessity  of  Su- 
sanna 's  marrying. ' '    At  this  point  the  contrast  between 
the  amiable  vacuity  of  Alaric 's  face  and  the  Mephisto- 


244      SUSANNA    AND    HER    ELDERS 

phelian  intelligence  of  his  monocled  eye  was  so  extraor- 
dinary as  to  hold  his  listeners  spellbound  in  their  chairs. 
"I  think  we  may  take  it  that  the  principal  feature  of 
the  child 's  character  is — call  it  determination  amounting 
to  obstinacy " 

"Crass  obstinacy!"  burst  from  the  Earl. 

"Pig-headedness!"  interjected  the  Dowager. 

' '  I  think  I  remember  hearing  that  in  her  nursery  days 
the  sure  way  to  make  her  take  a  dose  of  harmless  neces- 
sary medicine,"  pursued  Alaric,  his  left  eye  fixed  upon 
the  door,  "was  to  prepare  the  potion,  pill,  or  what-not, 
sweeten,  and  then  carefully  conceal  it  from  her.  Were 
she  my  daughter — which  Heaven  for — which  Heaven  has 
not  granted ! — I  should  make  her  take  a  husband  in  the 
same  way." 

' '  An  utterance  possibly  inspired,  but  as  obscure  as  the 

generality.  I  fear,  my  dear  Alaric "  Lord  Beau- 

maris  began.  The  Dowager  cut  him  short. 

"Say,  Gus,  can't  you  let  him  finish?  That's  what  I 
call  real  mean — to  switch  a  man  off  just  when  he's  be- 
ginning to  grip  the  track." 

"Mother,  I  bow  to  you,"  Lord  Beaumaris  said,  pur- 
pling with  indignation.  ' '  Pray  continue,  Alaric ! ' ' 

"Hum  along,  Alaric,"  encouraged  the  Dowager. 

Alaric,  his  countenance  as  the  countenance  of  a  little 
child,  his  right  eye  beaming  with  mildness,  and  his  left 
eye  as  the  eye  of  an  intelligent  fiend,  went  on : 

"Susanna  has  never  yet  seen  the  Duke  of  Halcyon — 
her  cousin,  and  the  husband  for  whom  you  destine  her. 
When  she  does  see  him — I  think  I  may  be  pardoned  for 
saying " 

"She'll  raise  Cain,"  agreed  Lady  Beaumaris.  "Girls 
think  such  heaps  of  good  looks;  I  was  like  that  myself, 
before  I  married  your  father,  Gus." 

"My  dear  mother,  granted  that  Halcyon's  gifts,  both 
physical  and  mental,  are  not" — the  Earl  coughed — 


SUSANNA    AND    HER    ELDERS      245 

''not  of  the  kind  best  calculated  to  impress  and  win 
upon  a  romantic,  willful  girl!  .  .  .  He  is,  to  speak 
plainly " 

"A  hideous  little  Troglodyte,"  nodded  the  Dowager, 
over  her  interminable  Shetland-wool  knitting. 

"Odd,  considering  that  his  mother,  when  Lady  Flora 
MacCodrum,  was,  with  the  sole  exception  of  myself,  the 
handsomest  young  woman  presented  in  the  Spring  of 
1845." 

"Mother,"  said  Lord  Beaumaris,  "delightful  as  your 
reminiscences  invariably  are,  Alaric  is  waiting  to  re- 
sume. ' ' 

"I  had  merely  intended  to  suggest,"  said  Alaric, 
twirling  his  eyeglass  by  its  black  ribbon  and  turning  his 
demure  drab-colored  countenance  and  balefully  glitter- 
ing left  eye  upon  the  Earl  and  the  Dowager  in  turn, 
"that  the  Duke  of  Halcyon,  like  the  rhubarb  of  Su- 
sanna's infancy,  should  be  rendered  tolerable,  agree- 
able, and  even  desirable  to  our  dear  girl's  palate,  by  be- 
ing forbidden  and  withheld.  Ask  him  here  in  Septem- 
ber for  the  partridge  shooting — as  I  understand  you 
think  of  doing — but  let  him  appear,  not  in  his  own  char- 
acter as  a  young  English  Peer  of  immense  wealth  and 
irreproachable  reputation,  but  as  one  of  those  literary 
and  artistic  Ineligibles,  who  are  encouraged  by  Society 
to  take  every  liberty  with  it — short  of  marrying  its 
cousins,  sisters,  or  daughters.  Let  him  encourage  his 
hair  to  grow — wear  a  velvet  coat,  a  flamboyant  necktie, 
and  silk  stockings  in  combination  with  tweed  knicker- 
bockers. Let  him  pay  attention  to  Susanna — as  marked 
as  he  chooses.  And  do  you,  for  your  part" — he  fixed 
Lord  Beaumaris  with  his  gleaming  left  eye — "discour- 
age those  attentions,  and  lose  no  opportunity  of  im- 
pressing upon  your  daughter  that  she  is  to  discourage 
them  too.  Given  this  tempting  opportunity  of  mani- 
festing her  independent  spirit,  you  will  find — or  I  know 


246      SUSANNA    AND    HER    ELDERS 

nothing  of  Susanna — that  it  will  be  pull  baker,  pull 
devil.  And  I  know  which  will  pull  the  hardest!" 

Lord  Beaumaris  rose  to  his  feet  in  superb  indigna- 
tion. He  struck  the  attitude  in  which  he  had  posed  for 
his  portrait,  by  Millais,  which  hung  at  the  upper  end 
of  the  library,  representing  him  in  the  act  of  deliver- 
ing his  maiden  speech  in  Parliament — an  address  advo- 
cating the  introduction  of  footwarmers  into  the  Upper 
House,  and  opened  upon  Alaric: 

"Your  proposal — I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  it — is  auda- 
cious. You  deliberately  expect  that  I — I,  Gustavus 
Templebar  Bio undle- Abbott  Bloundle,  ninth  Earl  of 
Beaumaris,  and  head  of  this  ancient  family — should 
stoop  to  carry  out  a  deception —  and  upon  my  only  child. 
That  I  should  take  advantage  of  her  willful  youth,  her 
undisciplined  temper,  to " 

"To  bring  about  a  match  that  will  set  every  mother's 
mouth  watering,  and  secure  your  daughter 's  son  a  duke- 
dom, and  a  hundred  and  thirty  thousand  a  year.  .  .  . 
That's  so,  and  I  guess,"  said  Lady  Beaumaris,  "you'll 
do  it,  Gus!  You're  a  representative  English  peer,  it's 
true,  but  on  my  side  you've  Yankee  blood  in  you,  and 
the  grandson  of  Elijah  K.  Van  Powler  isn't  going  to 
back  out  of  a  little  bluff  that 's  going  to  pay.  No,  sir ! " 
The  Dowager  ran  her  knitting-needles  through  her  wool 
ball,  and  rolled  up  her  work  briskly.  "He'll  do  it, 
Alaric,"  she  said  with  conviction. 

"Mother,"  exclaimed  the  Earl  in  desperation.  "You 
were  my  father's  choice,  and  Heaven  forbid  that  I 
should  fail  in  respect  towards  a  lady  whom  he  honored 
with  his  hand.  But  when  you  suggest  that  to  bring 
about  this  most  desirable  union,  I  should  wallow,  meta- 
phorically, in  dirt " 

"  It 's  pay  dirt,  Gus, ' '  said  the  Dowager.  ' '  A  hundred 
and  thirty  thousand  a  year,  my  boy!" 

' '  Mother ! ' '  cried  Lord  Beaumaris.    "  If  I  brought  my- 


SUSANNA    AND    HER    ELDERS       247 

self  to  grovel  to  such  infamy,  do  you  suppose  for  one 
moment  Halcyon " 

"That  Halcyon  would  tumble  to  the  plot?  There  are 
no  flies  on  Halcyon,"  said  the  Dowager,  "and  you  bet 
he'll  worry  through — velvet  coat,  orange  necktie,  fore- 
head, curls,  and  all!" 

"Then  do  I  understand,"  said  Lord  Beaumaris  help- 
lessly, "that  I  am  to  ask  him  to  accept  my  hospitality 
in  a  character  that  is  not  his  own,  and  appear  at  my 
table  in  a  disguise!  The  idea  is  inexpressibly  loath- 
some, and  I  cannot  imagine  in  what  character  he 
could  possibly  appear." 

"As  a  painter — of  the  fashionable  fresco  brand — 
engaged  if  you  like  to  decorate  your  new  ballroom!" 
put  in  Alaric  in  his  level  expressionless  tones. 

"But  he  can't  paint!"  said  the  Dowager.  "That's 
where  we're  going  to  buckle  up  and  collapse.  He  can't 
paint  worth  a  cent!  That  takes  brain,  and  Halcyon 
isn't  overstocked  with  'em,  I  must  allow." 

"Get  a  man  who  has  the  brain  and  the  ability  to  do 
the  work,"  said  the  imperturbable  Alaric. 

"Deception  on  deception!"  groaned  Lord  Beaumaris. 

"I  have  the  very  fellow  in  my  eye,"  pursued  Alaric' 
"Remarkable  clever  A.R.A.,  and  a  kinsman  of  your 
own.  Perhaps  you  have  forgotten  him,"  he  continued, 
as  Lord  Beaumaris  stiffened  with  polite  inquiry,  and 
the  Dowager  elevated  her  handsome  and  still  jetty  eye- 
brows into  interrogative  arches;  "perhaps — it's  equally 
likely — you  never  heard  of  him,  but  at  least  you  remem- 
ber his  mother,  Janetta  Bloundle?" 

"She  married  a  person  professionally  interested  in 
the  restoration  of  Perpendicular  churches,"  said  Lord 
Beaumaris,  "and  though  I  cannot  now  recall  his  name, 
I  remember  hearing  of  his  death,  and  forwarding  a  brief, 
condolatory  postcard  to  his  widow." 

"Who  joined  him,  wherever  he  is,  six  months  ago." 


248      SUSANNA    AND    HER    ELDERS 

"Dear  me!"  said  Lord  Beaumaris,  "that  is  quite  too 
regrettable.  However,  it  is  too  late  in  the  day  to  send 
another  postcard  addressed  to  the  surviving  members  of 
the  family." 

"There  is  only  a  son,"  said  Alaric,  "and  he  is  the 
rising  artist  to  whom  I  suggest  that  you  should  offer  a 
commission.  He  is  strong  in  fresco,  and  has  just  exe- 
cuted a  series  of  Wall  cartoons  for  the  new  Naval  and 
Military  Idiot  Asylum,  which  will  carry  his  name  down 
to  the  remotest  posterity." 

"Might — I — ah! — ask  his  name?"  said  Lord  Beau- 
maris. 

"Wopse,"  responded  Alaric. 

Lord  Beaumaris  shuddered. 

"And  the  Christian  prefix?"  He  closed  his  eyes  in 
readiness  for  the  coming  shock. 

"Halcyon." 

Lord  Beaumaris  opened  his  eyes,  and  the  Dowager 
uttered  a  slight  snort  of  astonishment. 

"A  relationship  existing  upon  the  mother's  side  be- 
tween young  Wopse  and  the  ducal  house  of  Halcyon,'7 
said  Alaric,  twirling  his  eyeglass  faster:  "it  is  not  sur- 
prising that  the  poor  lady  should  have  improved  upon 
the  homespun  Anglo-Saxonism  of  Wopse  by  the  best 
means  in  her  power.  At  any  rate  the  young  fellow  is 
well-looking  and  well-bred  enough  to  carry  both  names 
in  a  creditable  fashion." 

"You've  taken  considerable  of  a  time  about  making 
it,"  said  Lady  Beaumaris,  "but  I'm  bound  to  say  your 
suggestion  ain't  worth  shucks.  Given  the  real  artistic 
and  Bohemian  article  to  nibble  at,  is  a  girl  like  Susanna 
likely  to  swallow  the  imitation  article  ?  I  guess  not ! ' ' 

"I  concur  entirely  with  my  mother,  Alaric,"  said 
Lord  Beaumaris.  "You  propose,  in  the  person  of  this 
young  man,  to  introduce  an  element  of  danger  into  our 
limited  September  house-party." 


"You  could  let  this  Mr.  Wopse  live  in  the  garden 
chalet,  and  commission  the  keeper's  wife  to  attend  to 
him,"  said  the  Dowager,  "but  even  then,  how  are  you 
to  make  sure  that " 

"That  Susanna  does  not  associate  with  him?  There 
is  a  simple  method  of  divesting  the  young  man  of  all 
attraction  for  a  young  creature  of  our  dear  girl's  tem- 
perament," said  Alaric,  "but  for  several  reasons  I 
shrink  from  recommending  its  selection." 

"Pray  mention  it,"  said  Lord  Beaumaris,  with  an 
uneasy  laugh. 

"Let's  hear  it!"  said  Lady  Beaumaris. 

"You  have  only,"  said  Alaric,  with  great  distinct- 
ness, "to  call  this  young  fellow  by  his  Christian  name; 
to  let  him  take  Lady  Beaumaris  in  to  dinner ;  to  put  him 
up  in  your  best  room — the  Indian  chintz  suite — and 
generally  to  foster  the  idea " 

"That  he  is  the  Duke  of  Halcyon!"  cried  the  Dow- 
ager. "My  stars!  what  a  Palais  Royal  farce  to  be 
played  under  this  respectable  old  roof." 

"You  suggest  a  double — a  doubly-infamous  and  ob- 
jectionable deception!  Not  a  word  more.  ...  I  will 
not  hear  it!"  Lord  Beaumaris  rapped  decidedly  on 
the  table,  rose  in  agitation,  and  strode  on  creaking  pat- 
ent leathers  to  the  door.  "The  question  is  closed  for- 
ever," said  he,  turning  upon  the  threshold.  "Let  no 
one  refer  to  it  again  in  my " 

The  door,  which  had  occasionally  creaked  throughout 
this  discussion,  smartly  opened  from  without,  and  act- 
ing upon  the  Earl's  offended  person  as  a  battering-ram, 
caused  him  to  run  forwards  smartly,  tripping  over  the 
edge  of  the  worn,  but  still  splendid  Turkey  carpet.  Lord 
Beaumaris  saved  himself  by  clinging  to  the  high  back  of 
an  ancestral  chair,  upon  the  seat  of  which  he  subsided, 
as  the  tall  young  figure  of  his  daughter  appeared  on 
the  threshold,  her  Tam-o'-shanter  cap,  her  long  yellow 


250      SUSANNA    AND    HER    ELDERS 

locks,  and  her  red  golfing  jacket  shining  with  moisture, 
her  fresh  cheeks  red  with  the  cold  kisses  of  the  March 
winds. 

"It  began  to  snow  like  Happy  Jack,"  said  Susanna, 
pulling  off  her  rough  beaver  gauntlet  gloves,  ' '  so  I  came 
home.  Well,  have  you  all  done  plotting?  You  look 
like  conspirators — all — with  the  exception  of  Alaric. " 

This  was  true,  for  while  the  Earl,  his  mother,  and 
three  other  members  of  the  family  council,  whom  we 
have  not  found  it  necessary  to  describe,  wore  an  air 
of  somewhat  guilty  perturbation,  the  drab-colored,  mild 
countenance  of  Alaric,  its  diabolical  left  eye  now  blandly 
shuttered  with  its  tinted  eyeglass,  alone  appeared  guilt- 
less and  unmoved. 

"We've  been  discussing  the  September  house-party," 
explained  this  Catesby,  as  Susanna  sat  upon  the  elbow 
of  his  chair  and  affectionately  rumpled  his  sparse,  light- 
colored  locks. 

"And  husbands  for  me!"  said  Susanna,  half  throt- 
tling Alaric  with  her  strong  young  arm. 

"Susanna!"  cried  her  father.  "I  am  surprised!  I 
say  no  more  than  that  I  am  surprised!" 

' '  And  I  say, ' '  retorted  Susanna,  in  clear,  defiant,  ring- 
ing accents,  as  she  swayed  herself  to  and  fro  upon  her 
narrow  perch,  "that  it  is  beastly  to  be  expected  to  marry 
just  because  money  has  got  to  be  brought  into  the  fam- 
ily. Of  course  I  shall  marry  one  day — I  don't  want 
to  study  law,  or  be  a  hospital  nurse  like  that  idiotic 
Laura  Penglebury.  But  I  don't  want  to  be  a  married 
woman  until  I'm  tired  of  being  a  girl.  I  want  to  have 
lots  of  fun  and  do  lots  of  things,  and  see  lots  of  people, 
and  make  my  mind  up  for  my  own  self.  And " 

Lord  Beaumaris,  who  had  long  been  fermenting, 
frothed  over.  "When  you  form  an  alliance,  my  child, 
you  will  form  it  with  my  sanction  and  my  approval, 
and  the  husband  you  honor  with  your  hand  will  be  a 


SUSANNA    AND    HER    ELDERS      251 

person  selected  and  approved  of  by  me.    By  me !    I  will 
choose  for  you " 

' '  And  suppose  I  choose  for  myself  afterwards ! ' '  cried 
Susanna,  blue  fire  flashing  from  her  defiant  eyes. 

"Every  woman  is  at  heart — ahem!"  muttered  Alaric, 
as  Lord  Beaumaris  strove  with  incipient  apoplexy.  Su- 
sanna continued,  with  a  whimper  in  her  voice : 

"The  young  men  you  and  grandmother  point  out  to 
me  as  nice  and  eligible,  and  all  that,  are  simply  awful. 
They  have  no  chins,  or  too  much,  and  no  teeth,  or  too 
many,  and  they  don't  talk  at  all,  or  they  gabble  all  the 
time,  about  nothing.  They  never  read,  they  don't  care 
for  Art  or  Poetry — they  aren't  interested  in  anything 
but  Bridge  and  racing;  and  if  you  told  them  that  Bee- 
thoven composed  the  '  Honeysuckle  and  the  Bee, '  or  that 
Chopin  wrote  'When  I  Marry  Amelia/  they'd  believe 
you.  They  like  married  women  better  than  girls,  and 
people  who  dance  at  theaters  better  than  the  married 
women " 

"Pet,  you'd  better  go  to  Mademoiselle.  .  .  .  Ask  her, 
with  my  love,  to  fix  you  up  some  French  history  to 
translate,"  Lady  Beaumaris  suggested. 

"I  should  prefer  a  Gallic  verb,"  Lord  Beaumaris 
amended.  "I  marry  in  accordance  with  my  parents' 
wishes.  Thou  marriest  in  accordance  with  thy  parents' 
wishes.  He  marries — and  so  on!  And  make  a  solid 
schoolroom  tea  while  you  are  about  it,  my  child,"  he 
continued,  as  Susanna  bestowed  a  parting  strangle  upon 
Alaric,  kicked  over  a  footstool,  and  rose  to  leave  the 
room.  ' '  For  I  fear  we  are  to  be  deprived  of  your  society 
at  dinner  this  evening." 

Susanna's  lovely  red  underlip  pouted;  her  blue  eyes 
clouded  with  tears.  She  flashed  a  resentful  look  at  her 
sire,  and  went  out. 

"She  is  not  manageable  by  any  ordinary  methods," 
said  Lord  Beaumaris,  running  his  forefinger  round  the 


252      SUSANNA    AND    HER    ELDERS 

inside  of  his  collar,  and  shaking  his  head.  "In  such  a 
case  Contumacy  must  be  combated  with  Craft,  and  De- 
fiance met  with  Diplomacy.  Alaric,  regrettable  as  is 
the  course  you  have  counseled  us  to  pursue,  I  feel  in- 
clined to  adopt  it.  ...  I  shall  write  to-night  to  make 
an  appointment  on  Wednesday  with  the  Duke  of  Hal- 
cyon at  the  Peers'  Club,  and — I  shall  be  obliged  if  you 
will,  at  your  early  convenience — favor  me  with  the  ad- 
dress of  the  young  man  Wopse. " 

II 

The  garden  chalet  was  damp ;  it  had  been  raining, 
and  the  glittering  appearance  of  the  walls  betrayed  the 
fact.  ' '  As  though  a  bally  lot  of  snails  had  been  dancin ' 
a  cotillon  on  'em!"  said  the  Duke  of  Halcyon.  He 
yawned  dismally  as  he  opened  the  casement  and  leaned 
out,  looking,  in  his  gaudily-hued  silken  night-suit,  like 
a  tulip  drooping  from  the  window-sill.  Then  the  keeper 's 
wife  came  splashing  up  the  muddy  path  carrying  a 
tray  covered  with  a  mackintosh,  and  the  knowledge  that 
his  breakfast  would  presently  be  set  before  him,  and 
set  before  him  in  a  lukewarm,  flabby,  and  tepid  condi- 
tion, caused  Halcyon  to  groan.  But  presently,  when 
bathed,  shaved,  and  attired  in  a  neat  knickerbocker  suit 
of  tawny-orange  velveteen,  with  green  silk  stockings 
and  tan  shoes,  salmon-colored  silk  shirt,  rainbow  neck- 
tie, and  Panama,  he  issued,  cigarette  in  mouth,  from 
the  chalet,  and  strolled  in  the  direction  of  the  newly- 
restored  west  wing,  his  Grace's  equanimity  seemed  re- 
stored. He  even  hummed  a  tune,  which  might  have 
been  "The  Honeysuckle  and  the  Bee"  or  "God  Save 
the  King,"  as  he  mounted  the  short,  wide,  double  flight 
of  marble  steps  that  led  from  the  terrace,  and,  pushing 
open  the  glazed  swing-doors,  entered  the  ballroom,  the 
entire  space  of  which  was  filled  by  a  bewildering  maze 


SUSANNA    AND    HER    ELDERS      253 

of  ropes  and  scaffolding,  as  though  a  giant  spider  had 
spun  a  cobweb  in  hemp  and  pine.  A  smell  of  turpentine 
and  size  was  in  the  air,  and  a  paint-table  occupied  a 
platform  immediately  under  the  skylight  dome,  the 
sides  of  which  were  already  filled  in  with  outlines,  trans- 
ferred from  cartoons  designed  by  the  artist  engaged  to 
ornament  the  apartment.  That  gentleman,  arrayed  in  a 
blue  canvas  blouse  and  wearing  a  deerstalker  cap  on 
the  back  of  a  well-shaped  head,  was  actively  engaged  in 
washing  in  the  values  of  a  colossal  nude  figure-group 
with  a  bucket  of  sepia  and  a  six-foot  brush.  He  whistled 
rather  queerly  as  his  bright  eye  fell  upon  the  intruder. 

' '  You  're  there,  are  you  ? ' '  said  the  Duke  unnecessarily. 
"Shall  I  come  up?" 

"If  you  can!"  said  Halcyon  Wopse,  with  a  decided 
smile,  that  revealed  a  very  complete  set  of  very  white 
teeth.  "But,  to  save  time,  perhaps  I  had  better  come 
down  to  you."  And  the  painter  swung  himself  lightly 
down  from  stage  to  stage  until  he  reached  the  ground- 
level  of  his  august  relative. 

"Put  what  you've  got  to  tell  me  as  clearly  as  you 
can,"  said  the  Duke.  "I  never  was  a  sap  at  Eton,  and 
the  classical  names  of  these  Johnnies  you're  thingam- 
bobbing  on  the  what 's-a-name  rather  queer  me." 

"The  design  outlined  on  the  plaster  in  the  central 
space  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  skylight  dome,"  said" 
Wopse,  A.R.A.,  "is  the  'Judgment  of  Paris.'  The  three 
figures  of  the  rival  goddesses  are  completely  outlined, 
but,  as  you  see,  Paris  is  only  roughly  blocked  in. ' ' 

' '  I  don 't  see  a  city, ' '  said  the  Duke  with  some  annoy- 
ance. "I  only  see  a  bit  of  a  man.  And,  as  for  being 
block-tin " 

"Paris  was  a  man — or,  rather,  a  youth,"  said  Hal- 
cyon Wopse,  quoting — 

"  '  Fair  and  disdainfully  lidded,  the  Shepherd  of  Ida, 
Holding  the  golden  apple,  desired  of '  ' 


254      SUSANNA    AND    HER    ELDERS 

"Hold  on!  When  people  get  spouting  it  knocks  me 
galley- west, ' '  said  the  Duke.  ' '  Just  tell  me  plainly  what 
the  beggar  was  to  judge?  Goddesses?  I  savvy!  And 
which  of  'em  took  the  biscuit — I  mean  the  apple?  Ve- 
nus? Right  you  are!  That's  as  much  as  I  can  hold 
at  one  time,  thanky!" 

' '  Sorry  if  I  've  over-estimated  the  extent  of  the  accom- 
modation," said  Halcyon  Wopse,  smiling  and  lighting 
a  cigar. 

"One  of  the  Partagas.  Now,  hang  it,"  said  the  Duke, 
"that  is  infernally  stupid  of  my  man." 

' '  Of  my  man,  you  mean, ' '  corrected  the  painter. 

"I  begin  to  think,"  said  the  Duke,  "that  I  have, 
in  falling  in  with  the  absurd  plot,  cooked  up  by  that  old 
footler,  Beaumaris,  and  swopping  characters  with  a 
beg — with  an  artist  fellow  like  you,  in  order  to  take  the 
fancy  of  a  long-haired,  long-legged  colt  of  a  girl " 

"I  presume  you  allude  to  Lady  Lymston?"  put  in 
the  painter  coldly. 

"Of  course.  I  say,  in  tumblin'  to  the  idea  and  em- 
barkin'  in  the  game,  I've  made  an  ass  of  myself,"  said 
the  Duke.  "As  for  you,  you're  in  clover." 

"Say  nettles,"  sighed  the  painter. 

"Passin'  under  my  name " 

"Pardon,"  said  the  painter.  "The  name  is  my  own. 
And  let  us  say,  simply,  that  in  changing  identities  with 
your  Grace  in  order  to  enable  your  Grace  to  cast  a 
glamour  of  artistic  romance  over  a  very  ordinary " 

"Eh?"  interjected  the  Duke. 

"Situation,"  continued  the  painter.  "In  doing  this 
I  have  laid  up  for  myself  a  considerable  store  of  re- 
gret." 

"Regret!  Why,  hang  you!  You're  chalkin'  up 
scores  the  whole  bally  time ! ' '  shrieked  the  Duke,  stamp- 
ing his  tan  shoes  on  the  canvas-protected  parquet.  Beau- 
maris 's  guests — only  a  few  purposely  selected  fogies  and 


SUSANNA    AND    HER    ELDERS      255 

duffers,  who  don't  count,  it's  true — believe  you  to  be 
me.  They  natter  you  and  defer  to  you.  You  take  the 
Dowager  in  to  dinner,  and  I  'm  left  to  toddle  after  with 
Susanna's  French  governess.  I'm  out  of  everything — 
and  obliged  to  talk  Art,  bally  Art — from  mornin'  till 
night!  While  you — you've  ridden  to  cub-hunts  on  my 
mounts — driven  my  motor-cars  and  bust  my  tires " 

' '  And  very  bad  ones  they  are, ' '  said  the  painter. 

"You  ride  infernally  well,  and  show  off  before  the 
field  at  Henworthy  Three  Gates,  where  the  hardest  riders 
in  the  county  hang  back.  You  ain't  afraid  of  a  trappy 
take-off — you  weren't  built  for  a  broken  neck," 
screeched  the  incensed  Peer.  ''You  play  golf  too,  and 
win  the  Coronation  Challenge  Cup  for  the  Lymston 
Club,  takin'  seven  holes  out  of  the  eighteen,  and  holin' 
the  round  in  the  score  of  sixty-eight." 

"It  was  my  duty  to  maintain  the  honor  of  your 
Grace's  rank  once  I  had  consented  to  assume  it,"  said 
the  painter  with  a  bow. 

"And  you're  a  dead  shot,  confound  you,  knockin' 
the  birds  over  right  and  left,  and  getting  a  par.  in 
every  sportin'  newspaper  for  a  record  bag  of  four  hun- 
dred. You're  a  polo  player  too — hit  a  ball  up  and 
down  the  field  and  through  the  goals  at  each  end,  and 
look  as  if  you  didn't  care  whether  the  ladies  applauded 
you  or  not,  da — hang  you !  And  you  must  own  to  bein ' 
a  bit  of  a  cricketer,  and  consent  to  play  in  the  County 
Match  on  Thursday,  and  I  wouldn't  like  to  bet  against 
your  chances  of  makin'  a  big  score — an  all-round  ad- 
mirable what's-a-name  of  a  fellow  like  you!" 

"Perhaps  you'd  better  not,"  the  painter  remarked 
calmly,  knocking  off  the  ash  of  his  cigar.  ' '  But  I  should 
be  glad  to  know  the  reason  for  this  display  of  temper 
on  your  Grace's  part,  all  the  same,"  he  added.  "If  I 
rode  like  a  tailor  and  shot  like  a  duffer,  hit  your  ponies ' 
legs  instead  of  the  ball,  and  played  cricket  like  a  Ger- 


256      SUSANNA    AND    HER    ELDERS 

man  governess  at  a  girls'  boarding-school,  I  could  un- 
derstand  " 

"Don't  you  understand  when  I  get  back  into  my  own 
skin  again,  1 11  have  to  live  up  to  the  reputation  you  've 
made  me?"  yelled  Halcyon.  "I  could  pass  muster 
before  because  nobody  looked  for  anything.  But 
now  . .  ." 

"And  what  of  my  reputation?  I  think  I  heard  you 
telling  Susanna " 

' '  Susanna ! ' '  echoed  the  Duke. 

"She  is  Susanna  to  your  Grace.  Did  I  not  hear  you 
telling  her  that  Chiaroscuro  was  an  Italian  painter  of 
the  Cinquecento — who,  you  said,  was  a  Pope  who  pat- 
ronized Art !  You  went  on  to  say  that  Chiaroscuro  lived 
on  hard  eggs,  and  designed  carnival  cars,  and  that  Ben- 
venuto  Cellini  won  the  Gold  Cup  at  Ascot  Eace  Meet- 
ing in  '91." 

"Look  here,  we  won't  indulge  in  mutual  recrimina- 
tions. It's  beastly  bad  form!"  said  the  Duke.  "And 
though  you  can  ride  and  all  that,  I  never  said  I  thought 
you  could  paint  for  nuts!  In  fact,  between  ourselves, 
I  don't  half  like  havin'  these  spooks  on  the  ceilin'  set 
down  to  me."  He  twisted  his  sandy  little  moustache, 
and  fixed  his  eyeglass  in  his  eye,  and  started.  "Here's 
Lady  Lymston  comin'  over  the  lawn  with  a  whole  pack 
of  dogs,  to  ask  me  how  I've  got  on  since  yesterday." 

' '  Take  my  blouse ! ' '  The  painter  denuded  himself  of 
the  turpentiny  garment,  appearing  in  a  well-cut  tweed 
shooting-suit. 

' '  Get  into  that  rag !  Not  me,  thanks !  Hand  over  your 
brush,  and  give  me  a  leg  up  on  that  scaffoldin',  like  a 
good  chap.  I'd  better  be  discovered  at  work,  I  suppose," 
said  his  Grace  of  Halcyon,  as  he  slowly  mounted  to  the 
platform  under  the  dome. 

He  had  just  reached  it  when  Susanna's  fresh  young 
voice  was  heard  outside  calling  to  her  dogs,  and  a  mo- 


SUSANNA    AND    HER    ELDERS      257 

ment  later  she  appeared.  Her  fair  cheeks  were  flushed, 
her  blue  eyes  were  bright  with  exercise.  She  wore  a 
rough  gray  skirt,  which,  if  less  abbreviated  than  of  yore, 
still  showed  a  slim,  arched  foot  and  suggested  a  charm- 
ing ankle.  Her  white  silk  blouse  was  confined  by  a  Nor- 
wegian belt,  and  a  loose  beret  cap  of  black  velvet 
crowned  her  yellow  head,  its  silken  riches  being  now 
disposed  in  a  great  coil,  through  which  a  silver  arrow 
was  carelessly  thrust.  She  started  and  reddened  from 
her  temples  to  the  edge  of  lace  at  her  round  throat  when 
the  tweed-clad  figure  of  the  painter  caught  her  eye,  and 
gave  him  her  hand  with  an  indifference  which  was  too 
ostentatious. 

' '  I  didn  't  know  you  were  interested  in  Art, ' '  she  said. 

"Oh  yes!"  responded  the  painter.  "At  least,  if  this 
can  be  called  Art,"  he  added  modestly. 

' '  'Ssh ! ' '  warned  Susanna.  ' '  He  is  up  there,  and  will 
hear  you." 

' '  He  ? ' '  echoed  the  painter,  reveling  in  the  blush. 

' '  Did  I  hear  my  name  ? ' '  called  the  Duke  sweetly,  from 
above.  "Hulloa,  Lady  Lymston,  that  you?  Come  to 
record  progress  ?  As  you  see,  we  're  going  strong. ' '  His 
six-foot  brush  menaced  a  Juno's  draperies,  a  gallipot 
of  size  upset,  trickled  its  contents  through  the  planking ; 
his  velveteen  coat-tails  placed  Paris  in  peril,  as  he  turned 
his  back  to  the  cartoon  and  resting  his  hands  upon  his 
knees,  assumed  a  stooping  attitude,  and  peered  wag- 
gishly down  over  the  edge  of  the  scaffolding  at  Su- 
sanna. 

"Take  care — you!"  shouted  the  painter,  forgetting 
his  aristocratic  role. 

"My  foot  is  on  my  native  thingumbob,  ain't  it,  Lady 
Lymston?"  said  the  owner  of  the  small,  cockneyfied, 
grinning  countenance  above.  "How  do  you  like  the 
wax- works?  This  is  the" — he  flourished  the  six-foot 
brush  perilously — "this  is  the  Judgment  of  Berlin." 


258      SUSANNA    AND    HER    ELDERS 

"Paris!"  prompted  the  false  Duke  hoarsely. 

"He  is  trying  to  joke,"  said  Susanna,  in  an  under- 
tone. ' '  Don 't  discourage  him. ' ' 

"I  should  think  that  would  be  difficult,"  remarked 
Wopse  grimly. 

"Papa  tries  to  be  crushing,  and  Cousin  Alaric's  rude- 
ness is  simply  appalling,"  said  Susanna,  in  a  confiden- 
tial undertone.  "And  grandmother  walks  over  him  as 
though  he  were  a  beetle — no !  she  would  run  away  from 
a  thing  like  that — I  should  say  an  earwig  or  a  snail,  so 
one  feels  bound  to  be  a  little  nice." 

"If  only  out  of  opposition!"  said  the  painter,  with 
a  keen  look  of  intelligence,  at  which  Susanna  blushed 
again. 

"He  is  idiotic  when  he  tries  to  be  funny  about  Art — 
and  mixes  up  names  and  dates — and  tells  you  that  Titian 
sang  in  opera  and  Rubens  is  a  popular  composer.  But 
he  can  paint,  and  Alaric  Orme  thinks  he  will  be  Presi- 
dent of  the  Academy  one  day.  These  cartoons  are  splen- 
didly bold  and  effective." 

"You  think  so!  Wait  till  I've  colored  these  girls 
up  a  bit,"  said  the  Duke,  catching  the  end  of  the  sen- 
tence. "Then  you'll "  He  dipped  his  brush  and 

advanced  it,  dripping  with  cobalt,  towards  the  group  of 
goddesses. 

"Don't  touch  them!"  shouted  "Wopse,  in  agony. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Susanna. 

"I  don't  know.  Excuse  me,  Lady  Lymston,  I  believe 
the  smell  of  this  size  isn't  wholesome,"  Wopse  stam- 
mered. "I'll  get  out  into  the  air."  He  bolted. 

"Good  Heavens!"  he  moaned,  as  he  strode  unseeing 
down  a  broad  path  of  the  dazzling  west  front  pasture, 
"I  can't  stand  this!  I'll  tell  that  idiot  Osmond-Orme 
that  the  deception  must  come  to  an  end  ..." 

"Why  do  you  walk  so  fast?"  said  the  voice  of  Su- 


SUSANNA    AND    HER    ELDERS       259 

sarma,  behind  him.    "I  have  had  to  race  to  catch  you." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Wopse,  stopping  and  turning  his 
troubled  eyes  upon  the  fair  face  of  his  young  relation. 

"Let  us  walk  on" — Susanna  cast  an  apprehensive 
glance  behind  her — "or  somebody " 

' '  Somebody  will  see  us  walking  together ! ' '  said  "Wopse 
acutely. 

' '  It  is  so  much  nicer, ' '  Susanna  said  demurely,  ' '  when 
one  can  keep  pleasant  things  to  oneself.  And  we  have 
had  a  good  many  walks  and  talks  since  you  came  down 
here,  haven't  we?  And  cliff  scrambles — and  bicycle 
rides — and  rows  on  the  river.  And  the  fun  of  it  is  that, 
although  we  are  such  pals,  really,  father  and  grand- 
mother and  Uncle  Alaric  believe  that  I  positively  de- 
test you."  Her  young  laugh  rang  out  gayly;  she  thrust 
a  sprig  of  lavender,  perfumed  and  spicy,  under  the 
painter's  nose.  He  captured  the  tantalizing  hand. 

"Do  you  not?" 

' '  Detest  you !    You  know  I  don 't. " 

' '  May  I  have  it  ? "  It  was  the  sprig  of  lavender.  But 
the  painter  looked  at,  and  squeezed,  the  hand. 

' '  If  you  promise  to  make  a  big  score  on  Thursday ! ' ' 

Susanna,  it  must  be  admitted,  was  learning  coquetry. 

"I  will — if  you  are  looking  at  me!" 

"Done!" 

"Done!  Come  into  the  beech  avenue,"  the  painter 
pleaded,  "just  for  a  few  moments,  before  that  little 
beast  follows  us.  You  know  he  will!" 

"He  can't!"  Susanna's  golden  eyelashes  drooped 
upon  crimson  cheeks.  "He  can't  get  down!  I — I  took 
away  the  ladder  before  I  came  away ! ' '  she  owned.  Both 
hands  were  imprisoned,  her  blue  eyes  lifted,  lost  them- 
selves in  the  brown  ones  that  looked  down  at  her. 

"Was  that  because  you  wanted — to  be  alone  with 
me?  Was  it?"  demanded  Wopse. 


260      SUSANNA    AND    HER    ELDERS 

"Oh,  Hal,  don't!" 

"I'll  let  you  go  when  you  have  owned  up,  not  be- 
fore," Wopse  said  sternly. 

Susanna 's  reply  came  in  a  whisper :  ' '  You — know — it 
—was!" 

The  whisper  was  so  faint  that  Wopse  had  to  bend 
quite  low  to  catch  it.  Of  course  he  need  not  have  kissed 
Susanna.  But  he  did,  as  Alaric  Osmond-Orme  and  Lord 
Beaumaris  appeared,  walking  confidentially  together 
arm-in-arm. 

"I  think  my  little  stratagem  succeeds!"  Lord  Beau- 
maris had  just  said,  in  reference  to  the  preference  ex- 
hibited by  his  daughter  for  the  society  of  the  pretended 
painter.  And  Alaric  had  responded : 

"Yes,  as  you  say,  my  plan  has  proved  quite  a  bril- 
liant success!"  when  Lord  Beaumaris  clutched  his 
cousin's  arm. 

"Merciful  powers!  Susanna  and  that — that  young 
impostor ! ' ' 

Alaric 's  eyeglass  fell  with  a  click,  and  the  diabolical 
left  eye  twirled  and  twisted  fiendishly  in  its  socket  as  its 
retina  embraced  the  picture  indicated. 

"Feign  not  to  have  observed.  .  .  .  Well,  Susanna! 
How  are  you,  Halcyon.  We  are  strolling  towards  the 
ballroom  for  a  glimpse  of  Wopse 's  work." 

"We  are  stro "  Lord  Beaumaris  choked  and  pur- 
pled. Alaric  dragged  him  on. 

"Do  you  think?  ..."  Susanna's  cheeks  were  white 
roses  now.  "Do  you  think — they " 

' '  Saw  me  kiss  you  ?    Not  a  doubt  of  it ! " 

"Oh!"  Susanna  confronted  him  with  blazing  eyes. 
"You! — you  did  it  on  purpose!  It  was  a  plot " 

She  clenched  her  strong  young  hands,  battling  with 
the  desire  to  buffet  the  handsome  bronzed  face  before 
her.  "  I  '11  never — never  speak  to  you  again ! ' '  she  cried. 

"You  will   not  be  allowed  to,"   groaned  the   poor 


SUSANNA    AND    HER    ELDERS      261 

painter.  "Our  walks  and  rides  and  all  the  rest  are 
over.  .  .  .  Yes,  there  has  been  a  plot,  but  not  of  the 
kind  you  suspect.  I  am  a  traitor — but  not  the  kind  of 
traitor  you  think  me.  Lady  Lymston,  I  am  not  the 
Duke  of  Halcyon.  I  am  a  poor  devil — I  beg  your  par- 
don!— I  am  a  painter;  my  name  is  Wopse,  and  I  have 
disgraced  my  profession  by  the  part  I  have  played!" 
He  sat  down  miserably  on  a  rustic  bench. 

"Oh!  It  has  been  a  put-up  thing  between  you  all!" 
Susanna  gasped.  "Oh!"  She  towered  over  Wopse  like 
an  incensed  young  goddess. 

' '  If  I  could  only  paint  you  like  that !  Yes — I  deserve 
that  you  should  hate  me.  Never  mind  who  planned 
the  thing,  I  should  have  known  better  than  to  soil  my 
hands  with  a  deception,"  said  Wopse.  "As  for  the 
Duke " 

"The  Duke!  Do  I  understand  that  that  earwig  in 
velveteen  is  my  cousin  Halcyon!"  Susanna's  voice  was 
very  cold. 

' '  Yes.    I  am  a  kind  of  cousin,  too, ' '  said  Wopse. 

"But  not  that  kind.  Those — those  designs — the  work 
on  the  ceiling.  They  are  really  yours?"  Susanna  asked. 

"Mine,  of  course.  Do  you  think  that  fellow  could 
have  done  them?"  cried  Wopse,  firing  up.  "I've  risen 
at  four  every  morning  to  work  at  them,  and " 

"And  you  ride  splendidly,  and  you're  a  crack  shot 
and  polo  player,  and  you  're  going  to  win  for  the  county 
Eleven  on  Thursday,"  came  breathlessly  from  Susanna. 

"Ah,  you  won't  care  to  look  at  me  now!"  said  the 
depressed  Wopse. 

"Won't  I?"  Susanna's  eyes  were  dancing,  her 
cheeks  were  glowing,  she  pirouetted  on  the  moss-grown 
ground  of  the  avenue  and  dropped  a  little  curtsey  to 
the  painter.  "When  doing  it  will  drive  father  and 
grandmother  and  Alaric  and  the  Earwig  wild  with  rage. 
.  .  .  When — when  I  like  doing  it,  too !  When "  she 


262      SUSANNA    AND    HER    ELDERS 

stooped,  and  her  lips  were  very  near  "Wopse's  cheek — 
' '  when  I  love  doing  it ! " 

"Oh,  Susanna!"  cried  the  painter. 

"My  dear  Halcyon!"  said  Lord  Beaumaris,  peering 
short-sightedly  upwards  through  a  maze  of  scaffolding. 
"I  think  you  may  as  well  come  down." 

' '  In  other  words — the  game  is  up ! "  said  Alaric  Os- 
mond-Orme  mildly.  "Come  down,  my  dear  fellow,  and 
resume  your  own  role  of  hereditary  legislator.  Allow 
me  to  replace  the  ladder."  He  did  so. 

' '  So  that  fellow 's  done  me !  I  guessed  as  much  when 
that  little — when  Susanna  took  away  the  ladder,"  said 
the  Duke,  preparing  to  descend.  "And  then  when  I 
saw  him  kiss  her — there's  a  remarkably  good  view  of 

the  gardens  through  the  end  window.  I "  He 

pointed  to  some  remarkable  effects  of  color  splashed  upon 
the  ground  so  carefully  prepared  by  the  painter.  "I 
took  it  out  of  the  beggar  in  the  only  way  I  could,  don't 
you  know." 

' '  Take  it  out  of  him  still  more, ' '  suggested  Alaric,  his 
tinted  eyeglass  concealing  a  fiendish  twinkle,  "by  play- 
ing in  the  County  Cricket  Match.  He 's  entered  in  your 
name,  you  know!" 

"You're  very  obligin',"  said  the  Duke,  "but  I  don't 
think  I'm  taking  any."  He  gracefully  slithered  to  the 
floor  as  Susanna  and  Halcyon  Wopse  entered  the  ball- 
room, radiant  and  hand  in  hand. 

"Papa,"  said  Susanna,  taking  the  bull  by  the  horns, 
"Mr.  Wopse  and  I  are  engaged.  We  mean  to  be  mar- 
ried as  soon  as  possible  after  the  County  Cricket  Match. ' ' 
She  kissed  the  perturbed  countenance  of  Lord  Beau- 
maris, nodded  to  the  Duke,  and  walked  over  to  Alaric. 
' '  Your  plan  has  succeeded  beautifully, ' '  she  said.  ' '  Ain  't 
you  pleased — and  won't  you  congratulate  us?" 

"  I  am  delighted, ' '  said  the  imperturbable  Alaric.    He 


SUSANNA    AND    HER    ELDERS      263 

dropped  his  eyeglass  and  before  the  preternatural  in- 
telligence of  his  left  eye  even  Susanna  quailed.  "And 
I  congratulate  you  both  most  heartily. ' '  He  smiled,  and 
pressed  the  hands  of  Susanna  and  her  lover,  and,  mov- 
ing away,  stepped  into  the  garden.  There,  unseen,  he 
rubbed  his  hands,  twinkling  with  mourning  rings. 

"I  loved  that  boy's  mother  very  dearly,  boy  as  I 
was  then  ..."  said  Alaric.  "As  for  Susanna,  if  she 
knew  that  I  knew  she  was  listening  at  the  library 
door.  ..."  He  replaced  his  eyeglass,  and  his  expres- 
sion became,  as  usual,  a  blank. 


LADY  CLANBEVAN'S  BABY 

THERE  was  a  gray,  woolly  October  fog  over  Hyde  Park. 
The  railings  wept  grimy  tears,  and  the  damp  yellow 
leaves  dropped  soddenly  from  the  soaked  trees.  Pedes- 
trians looked  chilled  and  sulky;  camphor  chests  and 
cedar-presses  had  yielded  up  their  treasures  of  sables 
and  sealskin,  chinchilla  and  silver  fox.  A  double  stream 
of  fashionable  traffic  rolled  west  and  east,  and  the  rich 
clarets  and  vivid  crimsons  of  the  automobiles  burned 
through  the  fog  like  genial,  warming  fires. 

A  Baby-Bunting  six  horse-power  petrol-car,  in  color  a 
chrysanthemum  yellow,  came  jiggeting  by.  The  driver 
stopped.  He  was  a  technical  chemist  and  biologist  of 
note  and  standing,  and  I  had  last  heard  him  speak  from 
the  platform  of  the  Royal  Institution. 

' '  I  haven 't  seen  you, ' '  said  the  Professor,  ' '  for  years. ' ' 

"That  must  be  because  you  haven't  looked,"  said  I, 
"for  I  have  both  seen  and  heard  you  quite  recently. 
Only  you  were  upon  the  platform  and  I  was  on  the 
ground-floor. ' ' 

"You  are  too  much  upon  the  ground-floor  now,"  said 
the  Professor,  with  a  shudder  of  a  Southern  European 
at  the  dampness  around  and  under  foot,  "and  I  advise 
you  to  accept  a  seat  in  my  car." 

And  the  Baby-Bunting,  trembling  with  excitement  at 
being  in  the  company  of  so  many  highly- varnished  elec- 
tric victorias  and  forty  horse-power  auto-cars,  joined  the 
steadily-flowing  stream  going  west. 

"I  wonder  that  you  stoop  to  petrol,  Professor,"  I 
said,  as  the  thin,  skillful  hand  in  the  baggy  chamois 

264 


LADY    CLANBEVAN'S    BABY         265 

glove  manipulated  the  driving-wheel,  and  the  little  car 
snaked  in  and  out  like  a  torpedo-boat  picking  her  way 
between  the  giant  warships  of  a  Channel  Squadron. 

The  Professor's  black  brows  unbent  under  the  cap- 
peak,,  and  his  thin,  tightly-gripped  lips  relaxed  into  a 
mirthless  smile. 

"Ah,  yes;  you  think  that  I  should  drive  my  car  by 
radio-activity,  is  it  not?  And  so  I  could — and  would, 
if  the  pure  radium  chloride  were  not  three  thousand 
times  the  price  of  gold.  From  eight  tons  of  uranium  ore 
residues  about  one  gramme — that  is  fifteen  grains — can 
be  extracted  by  fusing  the  residue  with  carbonates  of 
soda,  dissolving  in  hydrochloric  acid,  precipitating  the 
lead  and  other  metals  in  solution  by  the  aid  of  hydrogen- 
sulphide,  and  separating  from  the  chlorides  that  remain 
— polonium,  actinium,  barium,  and  so  forth — the  chlo- 
ride of  radium.  With  a  single  pound  of  this  I  could 
not  only  drive  an  auto-car,  my  friend" — his  olive  cheek 
warmed,  and  his  melancholy  dark  eyes  grew  oddly  lus- 
trous— ' '  I  could  stop  the  world ! ' ' 

"And  supposing  it  was  necessary  to  make  it  go  on 
again?"  I  suggested. 

"When  I  speak  of  the  world,"  exclaimed  the  Pro- 
fessor, "I  do  not  refer  to  the  planet  upon  which  we 
revolve;  I  speak  of  the  human  race  which  inhabits  it." 

"Would  the  human  race  be  obliged  to  you,  Profes- 
sor?" I  queried. 

The  Professor  turned  upon  me  with  so  sudden  a  verbal 
riposte  that  the  Baby-Bunting  swerved  violently. 

"You  are  not  as  young  as  you  were  when  I  met  you 
first.  To  be  plain,  you  are  getting  middle-aged.  Do 
you  like  it?" 

"I  hate  it!"  I  answered,  with  beautiful  sincerity. 

"Would  you  thank  the  man  who  should  arrest,  not 
the  beneficent  passage  of  Time,  which  means  progress, 
but  the  wear  and  tear  of  nerve  and  muscle,  tissue,  and 


266         LADY    CLANBEVAN'S    BABY 

bone,  the  slow  deterioration  of  the  blood  by  the  microbes 
of  old  age,  for  Metchnikoff  has  shown  that  there  is  no 
difference  between  the  atrophy  of  senility  and  the  atro- 
phy caused  by  microbe  poison?  Would  you  thank  him 
— the  man  who  should  do  that  for  you?  Tell  me,  my 
friend." 

I  replied,  briefly  and  succinctly:    "Wouldn't  I?" 
"Ha!"  exclaimed  the  Professor,  "I  thought  so!" 
"But  I  should  have  liked  him  to  have  begun  earlier," 
I  said.     "Twenty-nine  is  a  nice  age,  now.  ...     It  is 
the  age  we  all  try  to  stop  at,  and  can't,  however  much 
we  try.    Look  there!" 

A  landau  limousine,  dark  blue,  beautifully  varnished, 
nickel-plated,  and  upholstered  in  cream-white  leather, 
came  gliding  gracefuly  through  the  press  of  vehicles. 
From  the  crest  upon  the  panel  to  the  sober  workman- 
like livery  of  the  chauffeur,  the  turn-out  was  perfection. 
The  pearl  it  contained  was  worthy  of  the  setting. 

"Look  there?"  I  repeated,  as  the  rose-cheeked,  sap- 
phire-eyed, smiling  vision  passed,  wrapped  in  a  volumi- 
nous coat  of  chinchilla  and  silver  fox,  with  a  toque  of 
Parma  violets  under  the  shimmer  of  the  silken  veil 
that  could  only  temper  the  burning  glory  of  her  wonder- 
ful Renaissance  hair. 

"There's  the  exception  to  the  rule.  .  .  .  There's  a 
woman  who  doesn't  need  the  aid  of  science  or  of  Art  to 
keep  her  at  nine  and  twenty.  There 's  a  woman  in  whom 
'the  wear  and  tear  of  nerve  and  muscle,  tissue  and  bone' 
goes  on — if  it  does  go  on — imperceptibly.  Her  blood 
doesn't  seem  to  be  much  deteriorated  by  the  microbe  of 
old  age,  Professor,  does  it  ?  And  she 's  forty-three !  The 
alchemistical  forty-three,  that  turns  the  gold  of  life  back 
into  lead!  The  gold  remains  gold  in  her  case,  for  that 
hair,  that  complexion,  that  figure,  are,"  I  solemnly  de- 
clared, "her  own," 


LADY    CLANBEVAN'S    BABY         267 

At  that  moment  Lady  Clanbevan  gave  a  smiling  gra- 
cious nod  to  the  Professor,  and  he  responded  with  a 
cold,  grave  bow.  The  glow  of  her  gorgeous  hair,  the 
liquid  sapphire  of  her  eyes,  were  wasted  on  this  stony 
man  of  science.  She  passed,  going  home  to  Stanhope 
Gate,  I  suppose,  in  which  neighborhood  she  has  a  house ; 
I  had  barely  a  moment  to  notice  the  white-bonneted, 
blue-cloaked  nurse  on  the  front  of  the  landau,  holding 
a  bundle  of  laces  and  cashmeres,  and  to  reflect  that  I 
have  never  yet  seen  Lady  Clanbevan  taking  the  air  out 
of  the  society  of  a  baby,  when  the  Professor  spoke: 

"So  Lady  Clanbevan  is  the  one  woman  who  has  no 
need  of  the  aid  of  Art  or  science  to  preserve  her  beauty 
and  maintain  her  appearance  of  youth?  Supposing  I 
could  prove  to  you  otherwise,  my  friend,  what  then?" 

"I  should  say,"  I  returned,  "that  you  had  proved 
what  everybody  else  denies.  Even  the  enemies  of  that 
modern  Ninon  de  1'Enclos,  who  has  just  passed " 

"With  the  nurse  and  the  baby?"  interpolated  the  Pro- 
fessor. 

"With  the  nurse  and  the  baby,"  said  I.  "Even  her 
enemies — and  they  are  legion — admit  the  genuineness 
of  the  charms  they  detest.  Mentioning  the  baby,  do  you 
know  that  for  twenty  years  I  have  never  seen  Lady 
Clanbevan  out  without  a  baby?  She  must  have  quite 
a  regiment  of  children — children  of  all  ages,  sizes,  and 
sexes. ' ' 

"Upon  the  contrary,"  said  the  Professor,  "she  has 
only  one!" 

"The  others  have  all  died  young,  then?"  I  asked 
sympathetically,  and  was  rendered  breathless  by  the 
rejoinder : 

"Lady  Clanbevan  is  a  widow." 

"One  never  asks  questions  about  the  husband  of  a 
professional  beauty,"  I  said.  "His  individuality  is 


268         LADY    CLANBEVAN'S    BABY 

merged  in  hers  from  the  day  upon  which  her  latest  pho- 
tograph assumes  a  marketable  value.  Are  you  sure  there 
isn't  a  Lord  Clanbevan  alive  somewhere?" 

"There  is  a  Lord  Clanbevan  alive,"  said  the  Profes- 
sor coldly.  "You  have  just  seen  him,  in  his  nurse's 
arms.  He  is  the  only  child  of  his  mother,  and  she  has 
been  a  widow  for  nearly  twenty  years!  You  do  not 
credit  what  I  assert,  my  friend?" 

"How  can  I,  Professor?"  I  asked,  turning  to  meet 
his  full  face,  and  noticed  that  his  dark,  somewhat  opaque 
brown  irises  had  lights  and  gleams  of  carbuncle-crim- 
son in  them.  "I  have  had  Lady  Clanbevan  and  her 
progeny  under  my  occasional  observation  for  years.  The 
world  grows  older,  if  she  doesn't,  and  she  has  inva- 
riably a  baby — toujours  a  new  baby — to  add  to  the 
charming  illusion  of  young  motherhood  which  she  sus- 
tains so  well.  And  now  you  tell  me  that  she  is  a  twenty- 
years'  widow  with  one  child,  who  must  be  nearly  of 
age — or  it  isn't  proper.  You  puzzle  me  painfully!" 

"Would  you  care,"  asked  the  Professor  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  "to  drive  back  to  Harley  Street  with 
me?  I  am,  as  you  know,  a  vegetarian,  so  I  will  not 
tax  your  politeness  by  inviting  you  to  lunch.  But  I 
have  something  in  my  laboratory  I  should  wish  to  show 
you." 

"Of  all  things,  I  should  like  to  come,"  I  said.  "How 
many  times  haven't  I  fished  fruitlessly  for  an  invita- 
tion to  visit  the  famous  laboratory  where  nearly  twenty 
years  ago " 

"I  traced,"  said  the  Professor,  "the  source  of  phenom- 
ena which  heralded  the  evolution  of  the  Rontgen  Ray 
and  the  ultimate  discovery  of  the  radio-active  salt  they 
have  christened  radium.  I  called  it  protium  twenty 
years  ago,  because  of  its  various  and  protean  qualities. 
Why  did  I  not  push  on — perfect  the  discovery  and  an- 


LADY    CLANBEVAN'S    BABY         £69 

ticipate  Sir  William  C and  the  X 's?  There 

was  a  reason.  You  will  understand  it  before  you  leave 
my  laboratory." 

The  Baby-Bunting  stopped  at  the  unfashionable  end 
of  Harley  Street,  in  front  of  the  dingy  yellow  house 
with  the  black  front  door,  flanked  by  dusty  boxes  of 
mildewed  dwarf  evergreens,  and  the  Professor,  relieved 
of  his  fur-lined  coat  and  cap,  led  the  way  upstairs  as 
lightly  as  a  boy.  Two  garret-rooms  had  been  knocked 
together  for  a  laboratory.  There  was  a  tiled  furnace 
at  the  darker  end  of  the  long  skylighted  room  thus  made, 
and  solid  wooden  tables  much  stained  with  spilt  chem- 
icals, were  covered  with  scales,  glasses,  jars,  and  retorts 
— all  the  tools  of  chemistry.  From  one  of  the  many 
shelves  running  round  the  walls,  the  Professor  took  down 
a  circular  glass  flask  and  placed  it  in  my  hands.  The 
flask  contained  a  handful  of  decayed  and  moldy-looking 
wheat,  and  a  number  of  peculiarly  offensive-looking  little 
beetles  with  tapir-like  proboscides. 

' '  The  perfectly  developed  beetle  of  the  Calandria  gra- 
naria,"  said  the  Professor,  as  I  cheerfully  resigned  the 
flask,  "a  common  British  weevil,  whose  larvae  feed  upon 
stored  grain.  Now  look  at  this. ' '  He  reached  down  and 
handed  me  a  precisely  similar  flask,  containing  another 
handful  of  grain,  cleaner  and  sounder  in  appearance, 
and  a  number  of  grubs,  sharp-ended  chrysalis-like  things 
buried  in  the  grain,  inert  and  inactive. 

"The  larvae  of  Calandria  granaria,"  said  the  Profes- 
sor, in  his  drawling  monotone.  "How  long  does  it  take 
to  hatch  the  beetle  from  the  grub?  you  ask.  Less  than 
a  month.  The  perfect  weevils  that  I  have  just  shown 
you  I  placed  in  their  flask  a  little  more  than  three  weeks 
back.  The  grubs  you  see  in  the  flask  you  are  holding, 
and  which,  as  you  will  observe  by  their  anxiety  to  bury 
themselves  in  the  grain  so  as  to  avoid  contact  with  the 


270         LADY    CLANBEVAN'S    BABY 

light,  are  still  immature,  I  placed  in  the  glass  recep- 
tacle twenty  years  ago.  Don't  drop  the  flask — I  value 
it." 

"Professor!"  I  gasped. 

"Twenty  years  ago,"  repeated  the  Professor,  deli- 
cately handling  the  venerable  grubs,  "I  enclosed  these 
grubs  in  this  flask,  with  sufficient  grain  to  fully  nourish 
them  and  bring  them  to  the  perfect  state.  In  another 
flask  I  placed  a  similar  number  of  grubs  in  exactly 
the  same  quantity  of  wheat.  Then  for  twenty-four 
hours  I  exposed  flask  number  one  to  the  rays  emanating 
from  what  is  now  called  radium.  And  as  the  electrons 
discharged  from  radium  are  obstructed  by  collision  with 
air-atoms,  I  exhausted  the  air  contained  in  the  flask." 
He  paused. 

"Then,  when  the  grubs  in  flask  number  two  hatched 
out, ' '  I  anticipated,  ' '  and  the  larvae  in  flask  number  one 
remained  stationary,  you  realized " 

' '  I  realized  that  the  rays  from  the  salt  arrested  growth, 
and  at  the  same  time  prolonged  to  an  almost  incalcu- 
lable extent,"  said  the  Professor — "for  you  will  un- 
derstand that  the  grubs  in  flask  number  one  had  lived 
as  grubs  half  a  dozen  times  as  long  as  grubs  usually  do. 
.  .  .  And  I  said  to  myself  that  the  discovery  presented 
an  immense,  a  tremendous  field  for  future  development. 
Suppose  a  young  woman  of,  say,  twenty-nine  were  en- 
closed in  a  glass  receptacle  of  sufficient  bulk  to  contain 
her,  and  exposed  for  a  few  hours  to  my  protium  rays, 
she  would  retain  for  many  years  to  come — until  she 
was  a  great-grandmother  of  ninety! — the  same  charm- 
ing, youthful  appearance " 

"As  Lady  Clanbevan!"  I  cried,  as  the  truth  rushed 
upon  me  and  I  grasped  the  meaning  this  astonishing 
man  had  intended  to  convey. 

"As  Lady  Clanbevan  presents  to-day,"  said  the  Pro- 
fessor, "thanks  to  the  discovery  of  a " 


LADY    CLANBEVAN'S    BABY 

"Of  a  great  man,"  said  I,  looking  admiringly  at  the 
lean  worn  figure  in  the  closely-buttoned  black  frock-coat. 

"I  loved  her.  ...  It  was  a  delight  to  her  to  drag 
a  disciple  of  Science  at  her  chariot- wheels.  People  talked 
of  me  as  a  coming  man.  Perhaps  I  was.  .  .  .  But  I 
did  not  thirst  for  distinction,  honors,  fame.  ...  I 
thirsted  for  that  woman's  love.  ...  I  told  her  of  my 
discovery — as  I  told  her  everything.  Bah!"  His  lean 
nostrils  worked.  "You  know  the  game  that  is  played 
when  one  is  in  earnest  and  the  other  at  play.  She  prom- 
ised nothing,  she  walked  delicately  among  the  passions 
she  sowed  and  fostered  in  the  souls  of  men,  as  a  beau- 
tiful tigress  walks  among  the  poison-plants  of  the  jungle. 
She  saw  that  rightly  used,  or  wrongly  used,  my  great 
discovery  might  save  her  beauty,  her  angelic,  dazzling 
beauty  that  had  as  yet  but  felt  the  first  touch  of  Time. 
She  planned  the  whole  thing,  and  when  she  said,  'You  do 
not  love  me  if  you  will  not  do  this, '  I  did  it.  I  was  mad 
when  I  acceded  to  her  wish,  perhaps;  but  she  is  a  wo- 
man to  drive  men  frenzied.  You  have  seen  how  coldly, 
how  slightingly  she  looked  at  me  when  we  encountered 
her  in  the  Row  ?  I  tell  you — you  have  guessed  already — 
I  went  there  to  see  her.  I  always  go  where  she  is  to 
be  encountered,  when  she  is  in  town.  And  she  bows, 
always;  but  her  eyes  are  those  of  a  stranger.  Yet  I 
have  had  her  on  her  knees  to  me.  She  cried  and  begged 
and  kissed  my  hands." 

He  knotted  his  thin  hands,  their  fingers  brown-tipped 
with  the  stains  of  acids,  and  wrung  and  twisted  them 
ferociously. 

"And  so  I  granted  what  she  asked,  carried  out  the 
experiment,  and  paid  what  you  English  call  the  piper. 
The  giant  glass  bulb  with  the  rubber-valve  door  was 
blown  and  finished  in  France.  It  involved  an  expense 
of  three  hundred  pounds.  The  salt  I  used — of  protium 
(christened  radium  now) — cost  me  all  my  savings — over 


272         LADY    CLANBEVAN'S    BABY 

two  thousand  pounds — for  I  had  been  a  struggling 
man " 

"But  the  experiment?"  I  broke  in.  "Good  Heavens, 
Professor!  How  could  a  living  being  remain  for  any 
time  in  an  exhausted  receiver  ?  Agony  unspeakable,  con- 
vulsions, syncope,  death!  One  knows  what  the  result 
would  be.  The  merest  common  sense " 

"The  merest  common  sense  is  not  what  one  employs 
to  make  discoveries  or  carry  out  great  experiments," 
said  the  Professor.  "I  will  not  disclose  my  method;  I 
will  only  admit  to  you  that  the  subject — the  subjects 
were  insensible;  that  I  induced  ancesthesia  by  the  ordi- 
nary ether-pump  apparatus,  and  that  the  strength  of 
the  ray  obtained  was  concentrated  to  such  a  degree  that 
the  exposure  was  complete  in  three  hours."  He  looked 
about  him  haggardly.  ' '  The  experiment  took  place  here 
nineteen  years  ago — nineteen  years  ago,  and  it  seems  to 
me  as  though  it  were  yesterday." 

"And  it  must  seem  like  yesterday  to  Lady  Clanbevan 
— whenever  she  looks  in  the  glass,"  I  said.  "But  you 
have  pricked  my  curiosity,  Professor,  by  the  use  of  the 
plural.  Who  was  the  other  subject?" 

"Is  it  possible  you  don't  guess?"  The  sad,  hollow 
eyes  questioned  my  face  in  surprise.  Then  they  turned 
haggardly  away.  "My  friend,  the  other  subject  asso- 
ciated with  Lady  Clanbevan  in  my  great  experiment  was 
—Her  Baby!" 

I  could  not  speak.  The  dowdy  little  grubs  in  the  flask 
became  for  me  creatures  imbued  with  dreadful  poten- 
tialities. .  .  .  The  tragedy  and  the  sublime  absurdity 
of  the  thing  I  realized  caught  at  my  throat,  and  my  brain 
grew  dizzy  with  its  horror. 

"Oh!  Professor!"  I  gurgled,  "how — how  grimly, 
awfully,  tragically  ridiculous !  To  carry  about  with  one 
wherever  one  goes  a  baby  that  never  grows  older — a 
baby " 


LADY    CLANBEVAN'S    BABY         273 

"A  baby  nearly  twenty  years  old?  Yes,  it  is  as  you 
say,  ridiculous  and  horrible,"  the  Professor  agreed. 

"What  could  have  induced  the  woman!"  burst  from 
me. 

The  Professor  smiled  bitterly. 

"She  is  greedy  of  money.  It  is  the  only  thing  she 
loves — except  her  beauty  and  her  power  over  men;  and 
during  the  boy's  infancy — that  word  is  used  in  the 
Will — she  has  full  enjoyment  of  the  estate.  After  he 
'attains  to  manhood' — I  quote  the  Will  again — hers  is 
but  a  life-interest.  Now  you  understand?" 

I  did  understand,  and  the  daring  of  the  woman 
dazzled  me.  She  had  made  the  Professor  doubly  her 
tool. 

"And  so/'  I  gurgled  between  tears  and  laughter, 
"Lord  Clanbevan,  who  ought  to  be  leaving  Eton  this 
year  to  commence  his  first  Oxford  term,  is  being  carried 
about  in  the  arms  of  a  nurse,  arrayed  in  the  flowing 
garments  of  a  six-months'  baby!  What  an  astonishing 
conspiracy ! ' ' 

"His  mother,"  continued  the  Professor  calmly,  "al- 
lows no  one  to  approach  him  but  the  nurse.  The  family 
are  only  too  glad  to  ignore  what  they  consider  a  deplor- 
able case  of  atavistic  growth-arrest,  and  the  boy  him- 
self  "  He  broke  off.  "I  have  detained  you,"  he 

said,  after  a  pause.  ' '  I  will  not  do  so  longer.  Nor  will 
I  offer  you  my  hand.  I  am  as  conscious  as  you  are — 
that  it  has  committed  a  crime."  And  he  bowed  me 
out  with  his  hands  sternly  held  behind  him.  There  were 
few  more  words  between  us,  only  I  remember  turning 
on  the  threshold  of  the  laboratory,  where  I  left  him,  to 
ask  whether  protium — radium,  as  it  is  now  christened — 
checks  the  growth  of  every  organic  substance?  The 
answer  I  received  was  curious: 

"Certainly,  with  the  exception  of  the  nails  and  the 
hair!" 


274         LADY    CLANBEVAN'S    BABY 

A  week  later  the  Professor  was  found  dead  in  his 
laboratory.  .  .  .  There  were  reports  of  suicide — hushed 
up.  People  said  he  had  been  more  eccentric  than  ever 
of  late,  and  theorized  about  brain-mischief;  only  I  lo- 
cated the  trouble  in  the  heart.  A  year  went  by,  and  I 
had  almost  forgotten  Lady  Clanbevan — for  she  went 
abroad  after  the  Professor's  death — when  at  a  little 
watering-place  on  the  Dorset  coast,  I  saw  that  lovely 
thing,  as  lovely  as  ever — she  who  was  fifty  if  a  day! 
With  her  were  the  blue-cloaked  elderly  nurse  and  Lord 
Clanbevan,  borne,  as  usual,  in  the  arms  of  his  attendant, 
or  wheeled  in  a  luxurious  perambulator.  Day  after  day 
I  encountered  them — the  lovely  mother,  the  middle-aged 
nurse,  and  the  mysterious  child — until  the  sight  began 
to  get  on  my  nerves.  Had  the  Professor  selected  me 
as  the  recipient  of  a  secret  unrivaled  in  the  records  of 
biological  discovery,  or  had  he  been  the  victim  of  some 
maniacal  delusion  that  cold  October  day  when  we  met 
in  Eotten  Row?  One  peep  under  the  thick  white  lace 
veil  with  which  the  baby's  face  was  invariably  covered 
would  clear  everything  up!  Oh!  for  a  chance  to  allay 
the  pangs  of  curiosity! 

The  chance  came.  It  was  a  hot,  waspy  August  fore- 
noon. Everybody  was  indoors  with  all  the  doors  and 
windows  open,  lunching  upon  the  innutritive  viands 
alone  procurable  at  health  resorts — everybody  but  my- 
self, Lord  Clanbevan,  and  his  nurse.  She  had  fallen 
asleep  upon  a  green-painted  esplanade  seat,  gratuitously 
shielded  by  a  striped  awning.  Lord  Clanbevan 's 
C-springed,  white-hooded,  cane-built  perambulator  stood 
close  beside  her.  He  was,  as  usual,  a  mass  of  embroid- 
ered cambric  and  cashmere,  and,  as  always,  thickly 
veiled,  his  regular  breathing  heaved  his  infant  breast; 
the  thick  white  lace  drapery  attached  to  his  beribboned 
bonnet  obscured  the  features  upon  which  I  so  ardently 
longed  to  gaze !  It  was  the  chance,  as  I  have  said ;  and 


LADY    CLANBEVAN'S    BABY         275 

as  the  head  of  the  blue-cloaked  nurse  dropped  reassur- 
ingly upon  her  breast,  as  she  emitted  the  snore  that 
gave  assurance  of  the  soundness  of  her  slumbers,  I 
stepped  silently  on  the  gravel  towards  the  baby 's  peram- 
bulator. Three  seconds,  and  I  stood  over  its  apparently 
sleeping  inmate ;  another,  and  I  had  lifted  the  veil  from 
the  face  of  the  mystery — and  dropped  it  with  a  stifled 
cry  of  horror! 

The  child  had  a  moustache! 


THE  DUCHESS'S  DILEMMA 

"A  PERSON  called  to  see  me!"  repeated  the  Duchess  of 
Rantorlie.  "He  pleaded  urgent  business,  you  say?" 

She  glanced  at  the  card  presented  by  her  groom-of- 
the-chambers  without  taking  the  trouble  to  lift  it  from 
the  salver.  "  'Mr.  Moss  Rubelius.'  I  do  not  know  the 
name — I  have  no  knowledge  of  any  urgent  business. 
You  must  tell  him  to  go  away  at  once,  and  not  call 
again. ' ' 

' '  Begging  your  Grace 's  pardon, ' '  remarked  the  official, 
"the  person  seemed  to  anticipate  a  message  of  the 
kind " 

"Did  he?  Then,"  thought  her  Grace,  "he  is  not 
disappointed. ' ' 

"And,  still  begging  your  Grace's  pardon,"  pursued 
the  discreet  domestic,  "he  asked  me  to  hand  this  second 
card  to  your  Grace." 

It  was  rather  a  shabby  card,  and  dog's-eared  as  though 
it  had  been  carried  long  in  somebody's  pocket;  but  it 
was  large  and  feminine,  and  adorned  with  a  ducal  coro- 
net and  the  Duchess's  own  cipher,  and  scribbled  upon 
it  in  pencil,  in  the  Duchess's  own  handwriting,  were 
two  or  three  words,  simple  enough,  apparently,  and  yet 
sufficiently  fraught  with  meaning  to  make  their  fair 
reader  turn  very  pale.  She  did  not  replace  this  card 
upon  the  salver,  but  kept  it  as  she  said: 

"Bring  the  person  to  me  at  once." 

And  when  the  softly  stepping  servant  had  left  the 
room — one  of  her  Grace's  private  suite,  charmingly  fur- 
nished as  a  study — she  made  haste  to  tear  the  card  up, 

276 


THE    DUCHESS'S    DILEMMA         277 

dropping  the  fragments  into  the  hottest  part  of  the 
wood-fire,  and  thrusting  at  them  with  the  poker  until 
the  last  tremulous  fragment  of  gray  ash  had  disap- 
peared. Rising  from  this  exercise  with  a  radiant  glow 
upon  her  usually  colorless  cheeks  the  Duchess  became 
aware  that  she  was  not  alone.  A  person  of  vulgar  ap- 
pearance, outrageously  attired  in  a  travesty  of  the 
ordinary  afternoon  costume  of  an  English  gentleman, 
stood  three  or  four  feet  off,  regarding  her  with  an 
observant  and  rather  wily  smile.  Not  at  all  discom- 
posed, he  was  the  first  to  speak. 

" Before  burnin'  that,"  he  remarked,  in  the  thick, 
snuffling  accents  of  the  low-bred,  "your  Grace  ought  to 
have  asked  yourself  whether  it  was  any  use.  Because 
— I  put  it  to  your  Grace,  as  a  poker-player,  being  told 
the  game's  fashionable  in  your  Grace's  set — a  man  who 
holds  four  aces  can  afford  to  throw  away  the  fifth  card, 
even  if  it's  a  king.  And  people  of  my  profession  don't 
go  in  for  bluff.  It  ain't  their  fancy." 

"What  is  your  profession?"  asked  the  Duchess,  re- 
garding with  contempt  the  dark,  full-fed,  red-lipped, 
hook-beaked  countenance  before  her. 

"Money!"  returned  Mr.  Moss  Rubelius.  He  rattled 
coin  in  his  trousers-pockets  as  he  spoke,  and  the  super- 
fluity of  gold  manifested  in  large,  coarse  rings  upon 
his  thick  fingers,  the  massy  chain  festooned  across  his 
broad  chest,  the  enormous  links  fastening  his  cuffs,  and 
the  huge  diamond  pin  in  his  cravat,  seemed  to  echo 
"Money." 

The  Duchess  lost  no  time  in  coming  to  the  point.  She 
was  not  guided  by  previous  experience,  having  hitherto, 
by  grace  as  well  as  luck,  steered  clear  of  scandal.  But, 
girl  of  twenty  as  she  was,  she  asked,  as  coolly  as  an 
intrigante  of  forty,  though  her  young  heart  was  flutter- 
ing wildly  against  the  walls  of  its  beautiful  prison, 
"How  did  you  get  that  card?" 


278         THE    DUCHESS'S    DILEMMA 

"I  will  be  quite  plain  with  your  Grace,"  returned 
the  money-lender.  "When  the  second  lot  of  cavalry 
drafts  sailed  for  South  Africa  early  in  the  year  of  1900, 
our  firm,  'aving  a  writ  of  'abeas  out  against  Captain 
Sir  Hugh  Delaying  of  the  Royal  Red  Dragoon  Guards — 
I  have  reason  to  believe  your  Grace  knew  something  of 
the  Captain?" 

"Yes/'  said  the  Duchess,  turning  her  cold  blue  eyes 
upon  the  twinkling  orbs  of  Mr.  Moss  Rubelius,  ' '  I  knew 
something  of  the  Captain.  You  do  not  need  to  ask  the 
question.  Please  go  on!" 

"The  Captain  was,"  resumed  Mr.  Rubelius,  "for  a 
born  aristocrat,  the  downiest  I  ever  see — saw,  I  mean. 
He  gave  our  clerks  and  the  men  with  the  warrant  the 
slip  by  being  'eaded  up  in  a  wooden  packin'  case, 
labeled  'Officers'  Stores,'  and  got  away  to  the  Cape, 
where  he  was  killed  in  his  first  engagement." 

"This,"  said  the  Duchess,  "is  no  news  to  me." 

"No,"  said  the  money-lender;  "but  it  may  be  news 
to  your  Grace  that,  though  we  couldn't  lay  our  'ands 
on  the  Captain  himself,  we  got  hold  of  all  his  luggage. 
Not  much  there  that  was  of  any  marketable  value,  except 
a  silver-gilt  toilet-set.  But  there  was  a  packet  of  letters 
in  a  Russia  writin'-case  with  a  patent  lock,  all  of  'em 
written  in  the  large-sized,  square  'and  peculiar  to  the 
leadin'  female  aristocracy,  and  signed  'Ethelwyne, '  or 
merely  'E.'  " 

' '  And  this  discovery  procures  me  the  pleasure  of  this 
interview?"  remarked  the  Duchess.  "The  letters  are 
mine — you  come  on  the  errand  of  a  blackmailer.  I  have 
only  one  thing  to  wonder  at,  and  that  is — why  you  have 
not  come  before?" 

"Myself  and  partner  thought,  as  honorable  men  of 
business,  it  would  be  better  to  approach  the  Captain 
first,"  explained  the  usurer.  "His  mother  died  the 
week  he  sailed  for  Africa,  and  left  him  ten  thousand 


THE    DUCHESS'S    DILEMMA         279 

pounds.  We  'astened  to  communicate  with  him, 
but " 

"But  he  had  been  killed  meanwhile,"  said  the 
Duchess.  "You  would  have  had  the  money  he  owed — 
or  did  not  owe — you,  and  your  price  for  the  letters, 
had  you  reached  him  in  time;  but  you  did  not,  and 
your  goods  are  left  upon  your  hands.  Why,  as  honor- 
able men  of  business ' ' — her  lovely  lip  curled — ' '  did  you 
not  take  them  at  once  to  the  Duke?" 

Mr.  Moss  Rubelius  seemed  for  the  first  time  a  little 
nonplussed.  He  looked  down  at  his  large,  shiny  boots, 
and  the  sight  did  not  appear  to  relieve  him. 

"I  will  be  quite  plain  with  your  Grace." 

"Pray  endeavor!"  said  the  Duchess. 

"The  letters  are — to  put  it  delicately — not  compro- 
mising enough.  They  're  more, ' '  said  Mr.  Rubelius,  ' '  the 
letters  a  school-girl  at  Brighton  would  write  to  her 
music-master,  supposing  him  to  be  young  and  possessed 
of  a  pair  of  cavalry  legs  and  a  moustache.  There's 
fuel  in  'em  for  a  First-Class  Connubial  Row, ' '  continued 
Mr.  Rubelius,  "but  not  material  for  a  Domestic  Up- 
heaval— followed  by  an  Action  for  Divorce.  As  a  man, 
no  longer,  but  once  in  business — for  within  this  last 
month  our  firm  has  dissolved,  and  myself  and  my  part- 
ner have  retired  upon  our  means — this  is  my  opinion 
with  regard  to  these  letters  in  your  Grace's  handwrit- 
ing, addressed  to  the  late  Captain  Sir  H.  Delaving: 
The  Duke,  I  believe,  would  only  laugh  at  'em." 

The  Duchess  started  violently,  and  seemed  about  to 
speak. 

"But,  still,  the  letters  are  worth  paying  for,"  ended 
Mr.  Moss  Rubelius.  "And  your  Grace  can  have  'em — 
at  my  price." 

"What  is  your  price?"  asked  the  Duchess,  trying  in 
vain  to  read  in  the  stolid  physiognomy  before  her  the 
secret  purpose  of  the  soul  within. 


280         THE    DUCHESS'S    DILEMMA 

"Perhaps  your  Grace  wouldn't  mind  my  taking  a 
chair?"  insinuated  Mr.  Rubelius. 

"Do  as  you  please,  sir,"  said  the  Duchess,  "only  be 
brief." 

"I'll  try,"  said  the  money-lender,  comfortably  cross- 
ing his  legs.  "To  begin — we're  in  the  London  Season 
and  the  month  of  March,  and  your  Grace  has  a  party 
at  Rantorlie  for  the  April  salmon-fishing.  Angling's 
my  one  vice — my  only  weakness,  ever  since  I  caught 
minnows  in  the  Eegent's  Canal  with  a  pickle-bottle  tied 
to  a  string.  Coarse  fishing  in  the  Thames  was  my  recrea- 
tion in  grub  times,  whenever  I  'ad  a  day  away  from  our 
office  in  the  Minories.  Trout  I  've  caught  now  and  then, 
with  a  worm  on  a  Stuart  tackle — since  I  became  a  but- 
terfly. But  I've  never  had  a  slap  at  a  salmon,  and 
the  finest  salmon-anglin '  in  the  kingdom  is  to  be  'ad 
in  the  Haste,  below  Rantorlie.  Ask  me  there  for  April, 
see  that  I  'ave  the  pick  of  the  sport,  even  if  you  'ave 
a  Royal  duke  to  cater  for,  as  you  'ad  last  year,  and, 
the  day  I  land  my  first  twenty-pounder,  the  letters  are 
yours. ' ' 

The  Duchess  burst  out  laughing  wildly. 

"Ha,  ha!  Oh!"  she  cried;  "it  is  impossible  to  help 
it.  ...  I  can't!  ...  It  is  so  ...  Ha,  ha,  ha!" 

"I  shan't  disgrace  you,"  said  Mr.  Rubelius.  "My 
kit  and  turn-out  will  be  by  the  best  makers,  and  I'll 
tip  the  'ead  gillie  fifty  pound.  I'm  a  soft-hearted  hass 

to  let  the  letters  go  so  cheap,  but Golly !  the  chance 

of  catchin '  a  twenty-pound  specimen  of  Salmo  solar  that 
a  Royal  'Ighness  'as  angled  for  in  vain!  .  .  .  Look 
'ere,  your  Grace" — his  tones  were  oily  with  entreaty — 
' '  write  me  the  invitation  now,  on  the  spot,  and  you  shall 
'ave  back  the  first  three  of  those  nine  letters  down  on 
the  nail." 

"You  have  them ?" 

"With  me!"  said  Mr.  Rubelius,  producing  a  letter- 


THE    DUCHESS'S    DILEMMA         281 

case  attached  to  his  stout  person  by  a  chain.  "The 
others  are — say,  in  retirement  for  the  present."  He 
extracted  from  the  case  three  large,  square,  gray  en- 
velopes, their  addresses  penned  in  a  large,  angular, 
girlish  hand.  "Write  me  the  invite  now,"  he  said,  "and 
these  are  yours  to  burn  or  show  to  his  Grace — which- 
ever you  please.  The  others  shall  be  yours  the  day  I 
land  my  twenty-pounder." 

The  Duchess  moved  to  her  writing-table  and  sat  down. 
She  chose  paper  and  a  pen,  and  dashed  off  these  few 
lines : 

"900,  BERKELEY  SQUARE,  W. 
"DEAR  MR.  Moss  RUBELIUS, 

' '  The  Duke  and  myself  have  asked  a  few  friends  to 
join  us  at  Rantorlie  on  April  1,  for  the  salmon-fishing, 
and  we  should  be  so  pleased  if  you  would  come. 
' '  Sincerely  yours, 

" ETHEL WYNE  RANTORLIE." 


"The  first  letter  I  ever  had,  dated  from  Berkeley 
Square,"  commented  Mr.  Rubelius,  as,  holding  the  let- 
ter very  firmly  down  upon  the  blotter  with  her  slim 
and  white,  but  very  strong  hands,  the  Duchess  signed 
to  him  with  her  chin  to  read,  "that  was  anything  in 
the  nature  of  a  genial  invitation." 

He  allowed  the  Duchess  to  take  the  three  letters  pre- 
viously referred  to  from  his  right  hand,  as  he  dexter- 
ously twitched  the  invitation  from  the  blotter  with  his 
left  finger  and  thumb.  "This,  your  Grace,  will  be  as 
good  as  half  a  dozen  more  to  me,"  he  observed,  "when 
I  show  it  about  and  get  a  par.  into  the  papers." 

"Horrible!"  cried  the  Duchess,  shuddering.  "You 
would  not  do  that!" 

Mr.  Rubelius  favored  her  with  a  knowing  smile  as 
he  produced  his  shiny  hat,  his  gloves,  and  a  malacca 


THE    DUCHESS'S    DILEMMA 

cane,  gold-handled,  from  some  remote  corner  in  which 
he  had  concealed  them. 

' '  Let  us,  being  now  on  the  footing  of  'ostess  and  guest, 
part  friendly,"  he  said.  "Your  Grace,  may  I  take  your 
'and?" 

"I  think  the  formality  absolutely  unnecessary,"  said 
the  Duchess,  ringing  the  bell. 

Then  the  money-lender  went  away,  and  she  caught  up 
a  little  portrait  of  the  Duke  that  stood  upon  her  writ- 
ing-table and  began  to  cry  over  it  and  kiss  it,  and  say 
incoherent,  affectionate  things,  like  quite  an  ordinary, 
commonplace  young  wife.  For,  after  eighteen  months 
of  marriage,  she  had  fallen  seriously  in  love  with  her 
quiet,  well-bred,  intellectual  husband,  and  the  remem- 
brance of  the  silly,  romantic  flirtation  with  dead  Hugh 
Delaving  was  gall  and  wormwood  to  the  palate  that  had 
learned  a  finer  taste.  How  had  she  fallen  so  low  as 
to  write  those  idiotic,  gushing  letters? 

Their  perfume  sickened  her.  She  shuddered  at  the 
touch  of  them,  as  she  would  have  shuddered  at  the 
touch  of  the  man  to  whom  they  had  been  written  had 
he  still  lived.  But  he  was  dead,  and  she  had  never  let 
him  kiss  her.  She  was  thankful  to  remember  that,  as 
she  put  the  letters  in  the  fire  and  watched  them  blacken 

and  burst  into  flame. 

***** 

"My  dear  Ethelwyne,"  asked  the  Duke,  "where  did 
you  pick  up  Mr.  Rubelius?  Or,  I  should  ask,  perhaps, 
how  did  that  gentleman  attain  to  your  acquaintance?" 

"It  is  rather  a  long,  dull  story,"  said  his  wife,  "but 
he  is  really  an  excellent  person,  if  a  little  vulgar, 

and You  won't  bother  me  any  more  about  him, 

Rantorlie,  will  you?" 

She  clasped  her  gloved  hands  about  her  husband's 
arm  as  they  stood  together  on  the  river  beach  below 
Rantorlie.  The  turbid  flood  of  the  Haste,  tinged  brown 


THE    DUCHESS'S    DILEMMA         283 

by  spate,  raced  past  between  its  rocky  banks ;  the  pine- 
forests  climbed  to  meet  the  mountains,  and  the  moun- 
tains lifted  to  the  sky  their  crowns  of  snow.  There 
was  a  smell  of  spring  in  the  air,  and  word  of  new- 
run  fish  in  the  string  of  deep  pools  below  the  famous 
Falls. 

"I  will  not,  if  you  particularly  wish  it/'  said  her 
husband.  "But  to  banish  your  guest  from  my  mind — 
that  is  impossible.  For  one  thing,  he  is  hung  with  air- 
belts,  bottles,  and  canteens,  as  though  he  were  starting 
for  a  tour  in  the  wildest  part  of  Norway.  I  believe  his 
equipment  includes  a  hatchet,  and  I  think  that  wad  he 
wears  upon  his  shoulders  is  a  rubber  tent,  but  I  am 
not  sure.  He  has  never  heard  of  prawn-baiting,  his 
rods  are  of  the  most  alarming  weight  and  size,  and  his 
salmon-flies  are  as  large  and  gaudy  as  paroquets,  and 
calculated,  McDona  says,  to  frighten  any  self-respect- 
ing fish  out  of  his  senses.  "We  can't  allow  such  a  gor- 
geous tyro  to  spoil  the  best  water.  He  must  be  sent 
to  some  of  the  smaller  pools,  with  a  man  to  look  after 
him." 

"But  he — he  won't  be  likely  to  catch  anything  there, 
will  he?"  asked  the  Duchess  anxiously. 

"A  seven-pounder,  if  he  has  luck!" 

"Oh,  Rantorlie,  that  won't  do  at  all!"  cried  Rantor- 
lie's  wife  in  dismay.  "I  want  him  to  have  the  chance 
of  something  really  big.  It's  our  duty  to  see  that  our 
guests  are  properly  treated,  and,  though  you  don't  like 
Mr.  Rubelius " 

"Dear  child,  I  don't  dislike  Mr.  Rubelius.  I  simply 
don't  think  about  him  any  more  than  I  think  about 
the  sea-lice  on  the  new-run  fish.  They  are  there,  and 
they  look  nasty.  Rubelius  is  here,  and  so  does  he." 

"Doesn't  he — especially  in  evening-dress  with  a  red 
camelia  and  a  turn-down  collar  ? ' '  gasped  the  Duchess. 

The  Duke  could  not  restrain  a  smile  at  the  vision 


284         THE    DUCHESS'S    DILEMMA 

evoked,  as  Mr.  Rubelius,  panoplied  in  india-rubber,  cork, 
and  unshrinkables,  strode  into  view.  One  of  the  gillies 
bore  his  rod,  the  other  his  basket.  A  third  followed 
with  that  wobbliest  of  aquatic  vehicles,  a  coracle, 
strapped  upon  his  back.  With  a  grin,  the  man  waded 
into  the  water,  unhitched  his  light  burden,  placed  it 
on  the  rapid  stream,  and  stood,  knee-deep,  holding  the 
short  painter,  as  the  frisky  coracle  tugged  at  it. 

"You're  going  to  try  one  of  those  things?"  said  the 
Duke,  as  Eubelius  gracefully  lifted  his  waterproof  hel- 
met to  the  Duchess.  "You  know  they're  awfully 
crank,  don 't  you,  and  not  at  all  safe  for  a  bung — I  mean, 
a  beginner?" 

' '  The  men,  your  Grace, ' '  explained  Mr.  Rubelius, ' '  are 
going  to  peg  me  down  in  the  bed  of  the  stream,  a  little 
way  out  from  the  shore." 

"But  if  your  peg  draws,"  said  his  host,  "do  you  know 
how  to  use  your  paddle?" 

"That  will  be  all  right,  your  Grace,"  said  the  affable 
Rubelius.  ' '  I  know  how  to  punt.  Often  on  the  Thames 
at  Twicken  'am ' ' 

' '  My  dear  sir,  the  Haste  in  Moss-shire  and  the  Thames 
at  Twickenham  are  two  very  different  rivers,"  said  the 
Duke,  beckoning  his  gillies  to  follow,  and  turning  away. 
"I  hope  the  man  may  not  come  to  any  harm,"  he  said. 
"Ethelwyne,  will  you  walk  down  to  the  Falls  with  me? 
I" — he  reddened  a  little — "I  sent  the  others  on  in  carts 
by  road.  We  see  so  little  of  each  other  these  days." 

And  the  young  couple  started,  leaving  Mr.  Rubelius  to 
be  put  into  his  coracle,  with  much  splashing,  and  swear- 
ing on  his  part,  by  two  of  the  gillies  and  a  volunteer. 
It  was  a  mild  day  for  April  in  the  North.  A  single 
cuckoo  called  by  the  riverside,  and  the  Duke  and  Duch- 
ess did  not  hurry,  though  Ethelwyne  turned  back 
before  she  reached  the  Falls,  below  which  the  deepest 
salmon-pools  were  situated,  and  where  the  men,  the 


THE    DUCHESS'S    DILEMMA         285 

boats,  and  the  rest  of  the  party  waited.  She  had  her 
rod  and  gillie,  and  meant  to  spin  a  little  desultorily 
from  the  bank,  the  Haste  being  almost  in  every  part 
too  deep  for  waders,  except  in  the  upper  reaches. 

"I  wonder  how  that  horror  is  getting  on?"  she 
thought,  as  the  gillie  baited  her  prawn-tackle.  Then, 
stepping  out  upon  a  natural  pier  of  rough  stones  lead- 
ing well  out  into  the  turbulent  whitey-brown  stream, 
the  Duchess  skilfully  swung  out  her  line,  and,  after  a 
little  manipulation,  found  herself  fast  in  a  good-sized 
fish. 

"What  weight  should  you  judge  it?"  she  asked  the 
attendant,  when  the  silvery  prey  had  been  gaffed  and 
landed. 

' '  All  saxteen, ' '  said  the  gillie  briefly.  ' '  Hech !  What 
cry  was  that?" 

As  the  man  held  up  his  hand  the  noise  was  repeated. 

' '  It  sounds  like  somebody  shouting  '  Help ! '  "  said  the 
Duchess. 

And,  rod  in  hand,  she  ran  out  upon  the  pier  of 
bowlders,  and,  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  gazed  up- 
stream, as  round  a  rocky  point  above  came  something 
like  a  tarred  washing-basket  with  a  human  figure  hud- 
dled knees-to-chin  inside.  The  coracle  had  betrayed  the 
confidence  of  Mr.  Eubelius,  and  drifted  with  its  hap- 
less tenant  down  the  mile  and  a  half  of  racing  water 
which  lay  between  Rantorlie  and  the  Falls.  The  Falls! 
At  that  remembrance  the  laughter  died  upon  the  Duch- 
ess's lips,  and  the  ridiculous  figure  drifting  towards 
her  in  the  bobbing  coracle  became  upon  an  instant  a 
tragic  spectacle.  For  Death  waited  for  Mr.  Eubelius 
a  little  below  the  next  bend  in  the  rocky  bed  of  the 
Haste.  And — if  the  money-lender  were  drowned — those 
letters  .  .  .  yes,  those  letters,  the  proofs  of  the  Duch- 
ess's folly,  might  be  regained  and  destroyed,  secretly, 
and  nobody  would  ever 


286         THE    DUCHESS'S    DILEMMA 

It  seemed  an  age  of  reflection,  but  really  only  a  sec- 
ond or  two  went  by  before  the  Duchess  cried  out  to 
Rubelius  in  her  sweet,  shrill  voice,  and  ran  out  to  the 
very  end  of  the  pier  of  rocks,  and  with  a  clever  un- 
derhand jerk  sent  the  heavy  prawn-tackle  spinning  out 
up  and  down  the  river.  Once  she  tried — and  failed. 
The  second  time,  two  of  the  three  hooks  stuck  firmly 
into  the  wickerwork  of  the  coracle.  It  spun  round,  sud- 
denly arrested  in  its  course,  but  the  strong  salmon-gut 
held,  and,  after  an  anxious  minute  or  two,  the  livid 
Rubelius  safely  reached  shore. 

"I've  'ad  my  lesson,"  said  he,  as  the  gillie  admin- 
istered whisky.  ' '  Never  any  more  salmon-fishing  for  me ! 
It's  too  tryin',''  he  gulped — "too  'ard  upon  the  nerves 
of  a  man  not  born  to  it!"  Then  he  got  up,  and  came 
bare-headed  to  the  Duchess.  His  face  was  very  pale 
and  flabby,  and  his  thick  lips  had  lost  their  color,  as 
he  held  out  a  black  leather  notecase  to  her  Grace.  ' '  You 
— you  saved  my  life,"  he  said,  "and  I'm  not  going  to 
be  ungrateful.  Here  they  are — the  six  letters.  Look 
'em  over,  if  you  like,  and  see  for  yourself.  And,  my 
obliged  thanks  to  his  Grace  for  his  hospitality — but 
I  leave  for  town  to-morrow.  Good-by,  your  Grace.  You 
won't  hear  of  me  again!"  And  Mr.  Rubelius  kept  his 
word. 


THE  CHILD 

HE  arrived  late — long  after  the  ship  of  his  father's 
fortune  had  been  safely  tugged  into  dock — announcing 
his  entrance  upon  this  terrestrial  stage  at  a  moment 
when  people  had  ceased  to  expect  him.  I  may  say  that 
Tom  and  Leila,  having  spent  twelve  years  of  married 
life  in  the  propagation  of  theories  alone,  had  the  most 
definite  notions  upon  the  subject  of  infant  rearing,  train- 
ing, culture,  and  so  forth.  Leila  intended,  she  informed 
me  in  confidence,  to  be  "an  advanced  mother,"  and 
Tom,  as  father  to  the  child  of  an  advanced  mother, 
could  hardly  help  turning  out  an  advanced  father,  even 
had  he  not  cherished  ambitions  in  that  line. 

The  boy — for,  as  Tom  reassured  all  sympathetic  call- 
ers during  the  high-pressure  first  week  of  its  existence, 
it  undoubtedly  was  a  boy — seemed  on  first  sight  rather 
smaller  and  spottier  than  the  child  of  so  many  bril- 
liant prospects  had  any  right  to  be.  They  gave  him 
the  name  of  Harold,  a  clanking  procession  of  other 
names  coupled  on  to  it,  ending  in  Alexander  Eric.  And 
they  engaged  and  imported  a  professional  Child  Cul- 
turist,  Miss  Sallie  Cooter,  of  Washington — pronounced 
Wawshington — certified  teacher,  trained  nurse,  member 
of  the  Ethnophysiological  Society  of  America,  and  one 
doesn't  know  how  many  others,  to  rear  Harold  on  the 
very  latest  scientific  plan.  Miss  Cooter,  as  the  intimate 
friend  and  chosen  disciple  of  the  Inventress  of  the  Sys- 
tem at  which  Tom  and  Leila  had  taken  fire  (a  lady  of 
literary  talents  and  original  views,  who  had  brought  up, 
on  purely  hygienic  principles,  a  family  of  one,  and  ex- 

287 


288  THE    CHILD 

panded  it  into  a  multiplicity  of  chapters) — Miss  Cooter 
might  be  trusted  to  achieve  the  desired  result,  and  turn 
out  Harold,  physically  and  mentally,  a  prodigy  of  in- 
fantile perfection.  Her  work  was  purely  philanthropic, 
and  if  she  consented  to  accept  the  inadequate  salary 
of  two  hundred  a  year  in  return  for  her  services,  Leila 
and  Tom  explained,  she  must  in  no  sense  be  treated  as 
a  hireling. 

The  united  efforts  of  the  brougham  and  the  spring- 
cart  fetched  Miss  Cooter  and  a  mountain  of  Saratogas 
from  the  station  one  spring  day,  and  she  came  down 
to  afternoon  tea  in  the  very  newest  of  Parisian  tea- 
gowns,  which,  properly  speaking,  is  not  a  tea-gown  at 
all.  She  was  decidedly  pretty,  being  dark,  slim,  bright- 
eyed,  keen-featured,  and  almost  painfully  intelligent- 
looking,  even  without  her  gold-framed  pince-nez.  We 
devoted  the  evening  to  sociality,  as  Harold's  regimen  of 
mental  and  physical  culture  was  to  commence  upon 
the  following  day. 

"But  you  shall  have  a  little  peep  at  Baby,"  Leila  said, 
' '  when  we  go  up  to  dress  for  dinner. ' ' 

Miss  Cooter  agreed.  "But  I  guess  I've  got  to  ask 
you,  since  the  boy's  name  is  Har'ld,  to  call  him  by  it, 
and  no  other,"  she  said.  "Our  society  is  dead  against 
abbreviations  and  pet  names.  We  hold  that  they  act  as 
a  clog  upon  the  expanding  faculties  of  the  child,  and 
arrest  mental  progress.  Besides,  when  maturity  is 
reached,  how  pyfectly  absurd  it  is  to  hear  middle-aged 
men  and  women  addressed  as  '  Toto '  and  '  Tiny ' ! " 

Tom,  who  has  a  way  of  calling  Leila  ' '  Mouse ' '  when  in 
good  humor,  turned  rich  imperial  purple  at  this  home- 
thrust,  and  Leila,  whose  pet  name  for  Tom  is  ' '  Tumps, ' ' 
called  attention  to  the  green-fly  on  the  pot-roses,  both 
silently  registering  a  vow  never  again,  save  in  camera, 
to  use  the  offending  appellations. 

Miss  Cooter  was  formally  invested  with  Harold  on 


THE    CHILD  289 

the  following  morning.  His  ex-nurse,  a  plump,  rosy- 
cheeked  country-woman,  painfully  devoid  of  culture,  and 
absolutely  unskilled  in  the  repression  of  emotion,  was 
relegated,  in  floods  of  tears,  to  command  of  the  laundry. 
Leila,  compassionating  the  grief  of  the  exile,  would 
have  pleaded  for  Mary's  reduction  to  the  post  of  un- 
der-nurse;  but  Miss  Cooter  pronounced  that  Mary  was 
an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  Progress,  and  an  enemy  to 
Culture,  and  must  go. 

Mary  went,  and  Harold,  at  first  too  stunned  by  her 
desertion  to  yield  to  sorrow,  presently  proclaimed  his 
bereavement  in  a  succession  of  ear-piercing  shrieks. 

"What  is  to  be  done?"  queried  Leila,  by  signs. 

Applying  both  hands  to  his  mouth,  after  the  fashion 
of  a  speaking-trumpet,  Tom  vocalized  the  suggestion, 
' '  Send— for  Mary— back ! ' ' 

But  Miss  Cooter  sternly  shook  her  head,  and,  bending 
over  the  cradle  which  contained  Harold,  looked  sternly 
in  his  flushed  and  disfigured  countenance.  He  immedi- 
ately held  his  breath,  growing  from  crimson  to  purple 
and  from  purple  to  black  as  she  delivered  her  inaugural 
address. 

"My  dear  Har'ld,"  said  she,  with  crisp  distinctness, 
"you  are  a  vurry  little  boy " 

"Hear,  hear!"  I  interpolated,  and  got  a  frown  from 
Leila. 

"And  at  three  months  old  your  reasoning  fahculties 
are  not  developed  enough  for  you  to  comprehend  that 
what  you  don't  like  may  be  the  best  thing  for  you. 
Mary  has  gone,  and  Mary  will  not  come  back.  Hence- 
forth you  are  in  my  cayah,  and  you  will  find  me  fyum, 
but  gentle.  However  badly  you  may  act,  I  shall  not 
punish  you." 

Harold  hiccoughed  and  stared  up  at  the  bright,  in- 
tellectual face  above  him  with  round,  astonished  eyes 
and  open,  dribbling  mouth. 


290  THE    CHILD 

' '  Your  own  sense  of  what  is  right  and  what  is  wrawng, 
dormant  though  it  be  at  this  vurry  moment,  I  intend  to 
awaken  and " 

Harold,  never  before  in  his  brief  life  harangued  after 
this  fashion,  appeared  to  grasp  already  the  idea  that 
something  was  wrong.  The  expression  of  astonishment 
faded,  his  down-drooped  mouth  assumed  the  bell  or 
trumpet-shape,  and,  rapidly  doubling  and  undoubling 
himself  with  mechanical  regularity,  he  emitted  the  most 
astonishing  series  of  sounds  we  had  yet  heard  from  him. 
No  caresses  were  administered  for  the  assuagement  of 
his  woe,  no  broken  English  babbled  in  his  infant  ears. 
The  Rules  of  the  System  of  Child  Culture  absolutely 
prohibited  petting,  and  baby-language  was  denounced 
by  Miss  Cooter  as  "pynicious." 

As  she  predicted,  Harold  left  off  howling  after  a  cer- 
tain interval. 

"Now  I  guess  you  have  lyned  one  lesson  already!" 
said  Miss  Cooter.  "When  you  are  older,  Har'ld,  you 
will  cawmprehend  that  the  truest  kindness  on  your 
payrents'  part  praumpted  the  separation  that  has  given 
you  pain.  You  will  have  your  bottle  now ;  you  will  say 
'Thank  you'  for  it,  and  ahfter  consuming  the  contents, 
you  will  go  quietly  to  sleep." 

But  it  took  a  long  time  to  convince  the  dubious  Har- 
old that  the  trumpet-shaped,  nickel-silver-stoppered  ves- 
sel tendered  by  his  new  guardian  was  the  equivalent  of 
his  beloved  and  familiar  "Maw."  When  finally  con- 
vinced, he  grabbed  it  without  the  slightest  attempt  at 
saying  ' '  Thank  you, ' '  and,  with  the  gloomiest  scowl  that 
I  have  ever  beheld  upon  a  countenance  of  such  pulpy 
immaturity,  applied  himself  to  deglutition.  Miss  Cooter 
shook  her  head  discouragingly. 

"This  child  has  a  strawngly  developed  animal  na- 
ture," pronounced  she — "a  throwback  to  the  primeval 
savage,  I  should  opine." 


THE    CHILD  291 

"Delightful!  Do  buy  him  a  little  stone  ax  and  a 
baby  bearskin,  Leila,"  I  pleaded.  "Think  what  light 
he  will  throw  upon  the  Tertiary  Period — if  Miss  Cooter 
happens  to  be  right!" 

But  Miss  Cooter  shook  her  head.  "He  must  be  en- 
vironed by  softening  and  civilizing  influences, ' '  said  she, 
"from  this  vurry  moment.  Vegetarian  diet  is  what  I 
should  strawngly  recommend."  Her  eye  doubtfully 
questioned  the  rapidly  sinking  level  of  the  sterilized  milk 
in  Harold's  glass  trumpet. 

"There  is  such  a  thing  as  a  cow-tree,  isn't  there?" 
said  Leila  anxiously.  "Perhaps  Cope  might  acclimatize 
one  in  the  tropical  house?" 

"But  while  the  cow-tree  is  being  acclimatized,"  I 
asked  disturbingly, ' '  upon  what  is  Harold  to  live  ? ' ' 

"Kindly  take  this,"  said  Miss  Cooter.  "May  I  trouble 
you  ?  Please ! ' '  she  repeated  sternly.  But  Harold  only 
screwed  up  his  eyes  and  dug  his  pinky  fists  into  them  as 
his  monitress  took  the  empty  trumpet  away,  telling  us 
stories  of  an  atypical  and  highly-cultured  boy  baby  of 
her  acquaintance  who  not  only  exhibited  Chesterfieldian 
politeness  at  four  months  of  age,  saying  "Please"  and 
"Thank  you,"  and  "Kindly  pass  the  salt,"  but  regu- 
larly performed  its  own  ablutions,  went  through  breath- 
ing exercises  and  simple  gymnastics,  was  familiar  with 
the  use  of  the  abacus,  and  could  work  out  sums  in 
simple  addition  upon  a  patent  hygienic  slate.  All 
these  facts  Miss  Cooter  put  before  us  with  convincing 
eloquence.  Her  language  was  well  chosen,  her  scien- 
tific knowledge  and  technical  skill  quite  appalling. 
There  was  nothing  about  a  baby  that  she  did  not  un- 
derstand, except,  perhaps — the  baby. 

From  that  day  Harold  lived  under  the  microscope. 
Charts  of  his  temper,  as  of  his  temperature,  were  regu- 
larly kept  up  to  date;  and  his  progress,  physical  and 
psychological,  was  recorded  by  Miss  Cooter  in  a  kind 


292  THE    CHILD 

of  ship's  log-book,  in  which  data  of  meteorological  dis- 
turbances appeared  with  distressing  frequency.  He  was 
not  precocious  enough  to  be  classified  as  abnormal,  or 
sufficiently  original  to  come  under  the  heading  ''Atypi- 
cal," or  old  enough  to  tell  lies,  and  so  be  dubbed  im- 
aginative. But  that  tertiary  ancestor  from  whom,  ac- 
cording to  Miss  Cooter,  he  derived  his  temperament, 
must  have  possessed  some  strength  of  character,  for 
from  the  beginning  to  the  end,  Harold's  strongest  preju- 
dice was  manifested  towards  Miss  Cooter,  his  most  vio- 
lent attachment  in  the  direction  of  the  banished  Mary, 
for  whom  he  howled  at  regular  intervals  until  he  for- 
got her,  when  he  became  reserved,  distrustful,  and  apa- 
thetic. His  intellectual  qualities  were  not  of  the  kind 
that  responded  to  scientific  forcing.  He  never  learned 
that  an  orange  was  a  sphere,  or  a  rusk  an  irregular  cube. 
The  india-rubber  letters  and  object-blocks  possessed  for 
him  no  meaning;  the  colored  balls  of  the  abacus  only 
awakened  in  him  a  tepid  interest.  He  was  in  texture 
flabby,  and  habitually  wore  an  expression  of  languid 
indifference — intensified  when  Miss  Cooter  was  deliver- 
ing one  of  her  oral  lectures,  to  utter  boredom.  Despite 
his  sanitary  surroundings,  his  day-nursery,  intermedi- 
ate nursery,  and  night-nursery,  papered,  carpeted,  fur- 
nished, lighted,  ventilated,  and  warmed  upon  the  most 
approved  scientific  methods,  he  did"  not  thrive,  contract- 
ing complaints  incidental  to  infancy  with  passionate 
enthusiasm,  and  keeping  them  long  after  another  child 
would  have  done  with  them.  And  then  he  complicated 
an  unusually  violent  attack  of  croup  with  convulsions, 
and  Miss  Cooter  guessed  she  had  better  resign  the  case, 
which  she  did  "right  away,"  in  favor  of  some  atypical, 
imaginative,  non-atavistic  young  American  citizen. 
When  last  I  looked  into  the  hygienic  day-nursery,  most 
of  the  educational  objects  it  had  contained  had  vanished 
— presumably  into  cupboards — and  Harold  was  lying 


THE    CHILD  293 

in  the  cotton  lap  of  his  recovered  Mary,  nursing  a 
stuffed  kitten,  and  sucking  an  attenuated  thumb.  The 
expression  of  gloomy  boredom  had  vanished  from  his 
countenance  as  Mary  chanted  a  rhyme,  deplorably  lack- 
ing in  sense  and  construction,  about  a  certain  Baby 
Bunting  whose  father  went  a-hunting  to  get  a  little 
rabbit-skin  to  wrap  the  Baby  Bunting  in.  It  afforded 
Harold  such  undisguised  delight  that  I  felt  sure  the 
rabbit  must  have  burrowed  in  tertiary  strata,  and  that 
the  predatory  parents  of  Baby  Bunting  must  have  been 
the  primal  type  from  which  Harold  hailed.  But  Miss 
Cooter,  who  could  alone  have  sympathized  with  my  sci- 
entific delight  in  this  discovery,  was  tossing  in  mid- 
Atlantic  on  her  way  to  the  land  of  the  Stars  and  Stripes. 

We  were,  however,  to  meet  yet  once  again  under  the 
spangled  folds  of  Old  Glory.  It  was  a  year  or  so  later, 
on  board  a  Hudson  River  steamboat.  She  was  prettier 
than  ever,  quite  beautifully  dressed,  and  her  entourage 
comprised  two  nurses  (a  colored  "mammy"  and  a  pretty 
Swiss),  a  perambulator  with  a  baby,  and  a  husband. 
She  introduced  me  to  the  husband  and  the  baby,  a 
round,  rosy  baby,  neither  atypical  nor  atavistic,  but  just 
of  the  common,  old-fashioned  kind. 

"Isn't  he  cute!"  she  exclaimed,  with  rapture.  "Smile 
at  Momma,  Baby,  and  show  urn's  pretty  toofs!"  Then 
she  addressed  the  child  as  a  "  doodleum  ducksey, ' '  while 
I  stood  speechless  and  staring. 

My  circular  gaze  awakened  memories  of  the  past.  She 
asked  after  Harold. 

"He  is  very  well — now!"  I  said  with  point.  "May 
I  be  pardoned  for  remarking  that  you  do  not  appear  to 
be  rearing  your  own  baby  upon  the  System  of  Child 
Culture  you  formerly  followed  with  such  extraordi- 
nary success?" 

"No,"  said  the  late  Miss  Cooter  thoughtfully. 
"No-o!" 


294  THE    CHILD 

"Why  not?"  I  asked,  hot  with  the  remembrance  of 
Harold's  sufferings. 

Miss  Cooter  considered,  a  beautifully  manicured  fore- 
finger in  a  dimple  that  I  had  never  observed  before. 

"Why  not?  You  earnestly  advocated  the  system — 
for  other  people's  babies." 

"Well,"  said  the  late  Miss  Cooter,  with  a  burst  of 
candor,  "I  reckon  because  those  were  other  people's 
babies.  This  is  mine!" 


A  HINDERED  HONEYMOON 

THE  coffee  and  liquor  stage  of  a  long  and  elaborate 
luncheon  having  been  reached,  the  rubicund  and  puffy 
personage  occupying  the  chair  at  the  head  of  the  table — 
number  three  against  the  glass  partition,  east  end,  Sa- 
voy Grill-room — waved  a  stout  hand,  and  instantly  eight 
of  the  nimblest  waiters — two  to  a  double-leaved  fold- 
ing-screen— closed  in  upon  the  table  with  these  aids  to 
privacy.  The  rubicund  personage,  attired,  like  each  of 
his  male  guests  present,  in  the  elaborate  frock-coat,  with 
white  buttonhole  bouquet,  tender-hued  necktie,  pale-com- 
plexioned waistcoat,  gray  trousers,  and  shiny  patent 
leathers  inseparable  from  a  wedding — the  rubicund  per- 
sonage (who  was  no  less  a  personage  than  Mr.  Otto 
Funkstein,  managing  head  of  the  West  End  Theatre 
Syndicate)  got  upon  his  legs,  champagne-glass  in  hand, 
and  proposed  the  united  healths  of  Lord  and  Lady 
Rustleton. 

"For  de  highly-brivileged  nopleman  who  hos  dis  day 
gonferred  ubon  de  brightest  oond  lofliest  ornamend  of 
de  London  sdage  a  disdinguished  name  oond  an  ancient 
didle  I  hof  noding  put  gongradulations, ' '  said  Mr.  Funk- 
stein,  balancing  himself  upon  the  tips  of  his  patent- 
leather  toes,  and  thrusting  his  left  hand  (hairy  and 
adorned  with  rings  of  price)  in  between  the  jeweled 
buttons  of  his  large,  double-breasted  buff  waistcoat. 
"For  de  sdage  oond  de  pooblic  dot  will  lose  de  most 
prilliant  star  dot  has  efer  dwinkled  on  de  sdage  of  de 
West  Enf  Deatre  I  hof  nodings  poot  gommiseration. 
As  de  manacher  of  dot  blayhouse  I  feel  vit  de  pooblic. 

295 


296         A    HINDERED    HONEYMOON 

As  de  friend — am  I  bermitted  to  say  de  lofing  oond 
baternal  friend  of  de  late  Miss  Betsie  le  Boyntz?" — 
(tumultuous  applause  checked  the  current  of  the  speak- 
er's eloquence) — ''changed  poot  dis  day  in  de  dwingling 
of  an  eye — in  de  hooding  of  a  modor-horn — by  de  ma- 
chick  of  a  simble  ceremony  at  de  Registrar's — gonverted 
from  a  yoong  kirl  in  de  first  dender  ploom" — (deafen- 
ing bravos  hailed  this  flight  of  poetic  imagination)  — 
"de  first  dender  ploom  of  peauty  oond  de  early  brime 
of  chenius" — (the  lady-guests  produced  their  handker- 
chiefs)— "into  a  yoong  vife,  desdined  ere  long  to  wear 
upon  her  lofely  prow  de  goronet  of  an  English  Goun- 
tess" — (Otto  began  to  weep  freely) — "a  Gountess  of 
Pomphrey.  .  .  .  Potztauzend !  de  dears  dey  choke  me. 
Mine  dear  vriends,  I  gannot  go  on." 

Everybody  patted  Funkstein  upon  the  back  at  once. 
Everybody  uttered  something  consoling  at  an  identical 
moment.  Mopping  his  streaming  features  with  the  larg- 
est white  cambric  handkerchief  ever  seen,  the  manager 
was  about  to  resume,  when  Lord  Rustleton — whose  tra- 
gic demeanor  at  the  Registrar's  Office  had  created  a 
subdued  sensation  among  the  officials  there,  whose  deep 
depression  during  the  wedding  banquet  had  been  inten- 
sified rather  than  alleviated  by  frequent  bumpers  of 
champagne,  and  who  had  gradually  collapsed  in  his 
chair  during  Funkstein 's  address  until  little  save  his 
hair  and  features  remained  above  the  level  of  the  table- 
cloth, galvanically  rose  and,  with  a  soft  attempt  to  thump 
the  table,  cried :  ' '  Order ! ' ' 

"Choke  him  off,"  murmured  a  smart  comedian  to  his 
neighbor,  "for  pity's  sake.  He's  going  to  tell  us  how 
he  threw  over  the  swell  girl  he  was  engaged  to  a  month 
before  their  wedding — for  Petsie  's  sake ;  and  how  he  has 
brought  his  parents '  gray  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the  grave, 
and  for  ever  forfeited  the  right  to  call  himself  an  Eng- 
lish gentleman.  I  know,  bless  you!  I  had  it  all  from 


A    HINDERED    HONEYMOON         297 

him  last  night  at  the  Mummers'  Club,  and  this  morning 
at  his  rooms  in  Wigmore  Street." 

"Rustleton!" 

"Order!"  yelled  Rustleton  again. 

"Order!"  echoed  Funkstein,  turning  a  circular  pair 
of  rather  bibulous  and  bloodshot  blue  eyes  upon  the 
protestant  bridegroom.  ' '  Oond  vy  order  ? ' ' 

"Permimme  to  reminyou,"  said  Rustleton,  with  la- 
borious distinctness,  ' '  that  the  present  Head  of  my  f  am- 
mary,  the  Rironaurable  the  Earl  of  Pomphrey — in  poin- 
nofac',  my  Fara — is  at  the  present  momen'  of  speaking 
in  the  enjoymen'  of  exhallent  health,  an'  nowistanning 
present  painfully  strained  rela  'ions  essisting  bi  'ween  us, 
I  have  no  desire — nor,  I  feel  convinned,  has  my  wife, 
Lady  Rustleton,  any  desire — to,  in  poinnofac',  usurp 
his  shoes,  or  play  leapfrog  over  his — in  poinnofac',  his 
coffin.  Therefore,  the  referen'  of  the  distinnwished  gel- 
leman  who,  in  poinnofac',  holds  the  floor,  to  the  coronet 
of  a  Countess  in  premature  conneshion  with  the  brow 
of  my  newly-marriwife  I  am  compelled  to  regard  as  ab- 
sorrutely  ram  bad  form!" 

"Tarn  bad  vat?"  shrieked  Funkstein. 

Rustleton  leaned  over  the  table.  His  eyes  were  set  in 
a  leaden-hued  countenance.  His  hair  hung  lankly  over 
his  damp  forehead.  He  nerved  himself  for  a  supreme 
effort.  "  Ununerrarrably  ram  baform!"  he  said,  and 
with  this  polysyllabic  utterance  fell  into  a  crystal  dish 
of  melted  ice,  and  a  comatose  condition. 

"Bad,  bad  boy!"  said  the  recently-made  Lady  Rustle- 
ton,  biting  her  notorious  cherry  underlip,  and  darting  a 
brilliant  glance  at  Funkstein  out  of  her  celebrated  eyes 
as  Rustleton  was  snatched  from  his  perilous  position 
by  a  strong-armed  chorus  beauty ;  and  the  low  comedian, 
who  had  become  famous  since  the  production  of  The 
Charity  Girl,  dried  the  Viscount's  head  with  a  table- 
napkin  and  propped  him  firmly  in  his  chair. 


298         A    HINDERED    HONEYMOON 

"  It  is  not  de  Boy,  but  de  man  dat  drinks  it, ' '  giggled 
Funkstein,  with  recovered  good  temper.  "Ach  ja,  oond 
also  de  voman.  How  many  bints  hof  I  not  seen 
you  ..." 

"That'll  do,  thanks,"  said  the  newly-made  Viscount- 
ess, with  her  well-known  expression  of  prim  propriety. 
"Not  so  much  reminiscing,  you  know;  it's  what  poor 
Tonnie  called  'ahem'd  bad  form'  just  now,  didn't  you, 
ducky?" 

"Don't  call  me  rucky,"  said  the  gentleman  addressed, 
who  was  now  rapidly  lapsing  into  the  lachrymose  stage 
of  his  complaint.  "Call  me  a  mirerrable  worm  or  a 
'fernal  villain.  I  reserve  both  names.  Doesn'  a  man 
who  has  alienarid  the  affeshuns  of  his  father,  blirid  his 
mother's  fonnest  hopes,  and  broken  his  pli'rid  word  to 
a  fonnanloving  woman — girl,  by  Jingo " 

' '  Oh,  do  dry  up  about  that  now,  darling ! ' '  said  Lady 
Rustleton  tartly.  "I  dare  say  she  deserved  what  she 
got.  What  you  have  to  remember  now  is  that  you're 
married  to  me,  and  we  shall  be  spinning  away  in  the 
Liverpool  Express  in  another  hour,  en  route  for  the 
ocean  wave.  I  always  said,  when  I  did  have  a  honey- 
moon— a  real  one — I'd  have  it  on  the  opening  week  of 
the  production  on  a  big  Atlantic  liner.  And  this  is  the 
trial  voyage  of  the  Regent  Street,  and  she's  the  biggest 
thing  in  ships  afloat  to-day.  Do  let 's  drink  her  health ! ' ' 

The  toast  was  drunk  with  enthusiasm.  Two  waiters 
advanced  bearing  a  wedding-cake  upon  a  charger.  The 
bride  coyly  cut  a  segment  from  the  mass.  It  was  divided 
and  passed  round.  The  ladies  took  pieces  to  dream  on, 
the  men  shied  at  the  indigestible  morsels.  Somebody  had 
the  bright  idea  of  sending  a  lump  to  the  chauffeur  of  the 
bridal  motor-car,  which  had  been  waiting  in  the  bright 
October  sunshine,  outside  in  the  palm-adorned  court- 
yard, since  one  o'clock.  A  chasse  of  cognac  went  round. 
Rustleton  was  shaken  into  consciousness  of  his  marital 


A    HINDERED    HONEYMOON         299 

responsibilities  and  a  fur-lined  overcoat ;  everybody  kissed 
Petsie ;  all  the  women  cried,  Petsie  included — but  not  un- 
becomingly. Her  bridal  gown,  a  walking-costume  of 
white  cloth  trimmed  with  silver  braid,  contained  a  thor- 
oughly contented  young  woman;  her  hat,  a  fascinating 
creation,  trimmed  with  a  rose-colored  bird,  a  marqui- 
sette, and  a  real  lace  veil,  crowned  a  completely  happy 
wife.  Tonnie  possessed  nothing  extraordinary  in  the 
way  of  good  looks  or  good  brains,  it  was  true ;  but  Ton- 
nie's  wife  was  wealthy  in  these  physical  attributes.  He 
possessed  a  high-nosed,  aristocratic  old  fossil  of  a  father, 
whose  prejudices  against  a  daughter-in-law  taken  from 
the  lyric  boards  must  be  got  over.  He  owned  a  per- 
fectly awful  mother,  whose  ancestral  pride  and  whose 
three  chins  must — nay,  should — be  leveled  with  the  dust. 
His  sisters,  the  Ladies  Pope-Baggotte,  Petsie  said  to  her- 
self with  a  smile,  were  foewomen  unworthy  of  such  steel 
as  is  forged  in  the  coulisses  of  the  musical  comedy  the- 
aters. Yet  should  they,  too,  bite  the  dust.  In  a  golden 
halo — partly  hope,  partly  champagne — she  saw  Lady 
Rustleton  sweeping,  attired  in  electrifying  gowns,  on- 
wards to  the  conquest  of  Society.  The  green-grocer's 
shop  in  Camberwell,  among  whose  cabbages  and  pota- 
toes her  infancy  had  been  passed ;  the  Board-School, 
on  whose  benches  the  first-fruits  of  knowledge  had  been 
garnered,  were  quite  forgotten.  Some  other  little  cir- 
cumstances connected  with  the  Past  were  blotted  from 
the  slate  of  memory  by  the  perfumed  sponge  of  gratified 
ambition.  She  bore  the  deluge  of  rice  and  confetti  with 
dazzling  equanimity.  She  hummed  "Buzzy,  Buzzy, 
Busy  Bee"  as  the  motor-car,  its  chauffeur  sorely  em- 
barrassed by  a  giant  wedding  favor,  a  pair  of  elderly 
slippers  tied  on  the  rear-axle,  sped  to  Euston. 

"I've  got  there  at  last/'  said  Petsie,  as  the  Express 
ran  into  the  Liverpool  docks  and  toiling  human  ants 
began  to  climb  up  the  ship's  gangways  thrust  down- 


300         A    HINDERED    HONEYMOON 

wards  from  the  beetling  gray  sides  of  the  biggest  of  all 
modern  liners.  "I've  got  there  at  last,  I  have,  and  in 
spite  of  Billy  Boman.  A  precious  little  silly  I  must 
have  been  to  take  a  hair-dresser  for  a  swell ;  but  at  sev- 
enteen what  girl  brought  up  in  a  Camberwell  back- 
street  knows  a  paste  solitaire  from  a  real  diamond,  or  a 
ready-made  suit,  bought  for  thirty  bob  at  a  Universal 
Supply  Stores,  from  a  Bond  Street  one?  And  if  nice 
curly  hair  and  a  straight  nose,  a  clear  skin,  and  a  good 
figure  were  all  that 's  wanted  to  make  a  gentleman,  Billy 
could  have  sported  himself  along  with  the  best.  But 
now  he 's  dead,  and  I  've  married  again  into  the  Peerage, 
and  I  shall  sit  on  the  Captain's  right  at  the  center  sa- 
loon table,  not  only  as  the  prettiest  woman  on  board  his 
big  new  ship,  but  as  a  bride  and  a  Viscountess  into  the 
bargain.  Wake  up,  Tonnie  dear.  You've  slept  all  the 
way  from  Euston,  and  there's  a  plank  to  climb." 

' '  Eh  ? ' '  Tonnie  stared  with  glassy  eyes  at  the  scurry- 
ing crowds  of  human  figures,  the  piled-up  trucks  of 
giant  trunks  and  dress-baskets  soaring  aloft  at  the  end 
of  donkey-engine  cables,  to  vanish  into  the  bowels  of 
the  marine  leviathan.  "Eh!  What!  Hang  it!  How 
confoundedly  my  head  aches!  Funkstein  must  have 
given  us  a  brutally  unwholesome  luncheon.  Why  did 
I  allow  him  to  entertain  us?  I  felt  from  the  first  it 
was  a  hideous  mistake." 

"Why  did  you  let  the  fellows  persuade  you  to  drii 
more  of  the  Boy  than  is  good  for  you,  you  soft-headed 
old  darling?"  Petsie  gurgled.  She  smoothed  the  lank 
hair  of  her  new-made  spouse,  and,  reaching  down  his  hat 
from  the  netting,  crowned  him  with  it,  and  bounded  out 
of  the  reserved  first-class  compartment  like  a  lively  lit- 
tle rubber  ball.  "Here's  Timms,  your  man,  with  my 
new  maid.  No,  thank  you,  Simpkins.  You  can  take  the 
traveling-bags.  I  may  be  a  woman  of  title,  but  I  mean 
to  carry  my  jewel-case  myself.  Come  along  into  the 


A    HINDERED    HONEYMOON         801 

Ark,  Tonnie,  with  the  other  couples.  What  number  did 
you  say  belonged  to  our  cabin,  darling?" 

"The  Gobelin  Tapestry  Bridal  Suite  Number  Four," 
said  Rustleton,  with  a  pallid  smile,  as  a  white-capped, 
gold-banded  official  hurried  forward  to  relieve  the  Vis- 
countess of  her  coroneted  jewel-case. 

' '  How  tweedlums ! ' '  sighed  Petsie,  retaining  firm  hold 
of  the  leather  repository  of  her  brand-new  diamond  tiara 
and  necklace,  not  to  mention  all  the  rings  and  brooches 
and  bangles  reaped  from  the  admiring  occupants  of  the 
orchestra-stalls  at  the  West  End  Theatre  during  the 
tumultuously  successful  run  of  The  Charity  Girl. 

"It  costs  for  the  trip — five  days,  four  hours,  and  six- 
teen minutes — between  Queenstown  and  the  Daunts  Rock 
Lightship,"  said  Rustleton,  with  a  heavy  groan,  "ex- 
actly two  hundred  and  seventy-five  guineas.  Ha,  ha!" 
He  laughed  hollowly. 

"But  why  did  you  choose  such  a  screamingly  swell 
suite,  you  wicked,  wasteful  duckums?"  cried  the  bride 
coquettishly,  as  their  guide  switched  on  the  electric  light 
and  revealed  a  chaste  and  sumptuous  nest  of  apartments 
in  carved  and  inlaid  mahogany,  finished  in  white  enamel 
with  artistic  touches  of  gold,  and  hung  with  tapestry  of 
a  greeny-blue  and  livid  flesh-color. 

"Because  I  can't  afford  it,"  said  the  dismal  bride- 
groom, "and  because  the  meals  and  all  that  will  be 
served  here  separately  and  privately."  He  sank  limply 
upon  a  sumptuous  lounge,  and  hurled  an  extinct  cig- 
arette-end into  an  open  fireplace  surrounded  by  beaten 
brass  and  crowned  by  a  mantel  in  rose-colored  marble. 
"The  execrable  ordeal  of  the  first  cabin  dining-room, 
with  its  crowds  of  gross,  commonplace,  high-spirited, 
hungry  feeders  will  thus  be  spared  us.  You  need  never 
set  foot  in  the  Ladies'  Drawing-room;  the  Lounge  and 
the  Smoking-room  shall  equally  be  shunned  by  me.  Ex- 
ercise on  the  Promenade  Deck  is  a  necessity.  We  shall 


302         A    HINDERED    HONEYMOON 

take  it  daily,  and  take  it  together,  my  incogmto  pre- 
served by  a  motor-cap  and  goggles,  your  privacy  ensured 
by  a  silk — two  silk — veils. ' '  He  smiled  wanly.  ' '  I  have 
roughly  laid  down  these  lines,  formulated  this  plan,  for 
the  maintenance  of  our  privacy  without  making  any  al- 
lowance for  the  exigencies  of  the  weather  and  the  condi- 
tion of  the  sea.  But  if  I  should  be  prostrated — and  I 
am  an  exceedingly  bad  sailor  at  the  best  of  times — re- 
member, dearest,  that  a  tumbler  of  hot  water  adminis- 
tered every  ten  minutes,  alternately  with  a  slice  of  iced 
lemon,  should  feverish  symptoms  intervene,  is  not  a 
panacea,  but  an  alleviation,  as  my  cousin,  Hambridge 
Ost,  would  say.  I  rather  wonder  what  Hambridge  is 
saying  now.  He  possesses  an  extraordinary  faculty  of 
being  scathingly  sarcastic  at  the  expense  of  persons  who 
deserve  censure.  An  unpleasant  sensation  in  my  spine 
gives  me  the  impression — do  you  ever  have  those  impres- 
sions?— that  he  is  exercising  that  faculty  now — and  at 
my  expense.  Timms,  I  will  ask  you  to  unpack  my  dress- 
ing-gown and  papooshes,  and  then,  if  you,  my  darling, 
do  not  object,  I  will  lie  down  comfortably  in  my  own 
room  and  have  a  cup  of  tea.  If  I  might  make  a  sugges- 
tion, dearest,  it  is  that  you  would  tell  your  maid  to  get 
out  your  dressing-gown  and  your  slippers,  and  lie  down 
comfortably  in  your  own  room  and  have  a  cup  of  tea." 
The  twenty-six  thousand  ton  Atlantic  flyer  moved 
gracefully  down  the  Mersey,  the  last  flutter  of  handker- 
chiefs died  away  on  the  stage,  the  last  head  was  pulled 
back  over  the  vessel's  rail,  the  seething  tumult  of  set- 
tling down  reduced  itself  to  a  hive-like  buzzing.  The 
Regent  Street's  passenger-list  comprised  quite  a  number 
of  notabilities  connected  with  Art  and  the  Drama,  a 
promising  crop  of  American  millionaires,  an  ex- Viceroy 
of  India,  and  a  singularly  gifted  orang-utan,  the  biggest 
sensation  of  the  London  season,  who  had  dined  with  the 
Lord  Mayor  and  Corporation  at  the  Mansion  House, 


A    HINDERED    HONEYMOON         303 

and  was  now  crossing  the  ocean  to  fulfill  a  roof-garden 
engagement  in  New  York,  and  be  entertained  at  a  freak 
supper  by  six  of  the  supreme  leaders  of  American  So- 
ciety. Petsie  pondered  the  passenger-list  with  a  pouting 
lip.  She  heard  from  her  enraptured  maid  of  the  glories 
of  the  floating  palace  in  which  the  first  week  of  her 
honeymoon  was  to  be  spent  as  she  sipped  the  cup  of  tea 
recommended  by  Kustleton. 

''Lifts  to  take  you  up  and  down  stairs,  silver-gilt  and 
enamel  souvenirs  given  to  everybody  free,  Turkish  baths, 
needle  baths,  electric  baths,  hairdressing  and  manicuring 
saloons,  millinery  establishments,  a  theater  with  a  stock 
company  who  don't  know  what  sea-sickness  means,  jew- 
elers' shops,  florists,  and  Fuller's,  a  palmist,  and  a 
thought-reader.  Goodness!  the  gay  old  ship  must  be  a 
floating  London,  with  fish  and  things  squattering  about 
underneath  one's  shoe-heels  instead  of  'phone- wires  and 
electric-light  cables.  And  I'm  shut  up  like  a  blooming 
pearl  in  an  oyster,  instead  of  running  about  and  looking 
at  everything.  Oh,  Simpkie" — Simpkins,  the  new  maid, 
had  been  a  dresser  at  the  "West  End  Theatre — "I'm  dy- 
ing for  the  chance  of  a  little  flutter  on  my  own,  and  how 
am  I  to  get  it?" 

The  Regent  Street  gave  a  long,  stately,  sliding  dive 
forwards  as  a  mammoth  roller  of  St.  George's  Channel 
swept  under  her  sky-scraping  stern.  A  long,  plaintive 
moan — forerunner  of  how  many  to  come ! — sounded  from 
the  other  side  of  the  partition  dividing  the  apartments 
of  the  bride  from  that  of  her  newly-wedded  lord. 

"I  think  you're  goin'  to  get  it,  my  lady,"  said  the 
demure  Simpkins,  as  Eustleton's  man  knocked  at  his 
mistress's  door  to  convey  the  intimation  that  his  lord- 
ship preferred  not  to  dine. 

A  head- wind  and  a  heavy  sea  combined,  during  the 
next  three  days  of  the  voyage,  to  render  Rustleton  a  prey 
to  agonies  which  are  better  imagined  than  described. 


304         A    HINDERED    HONEYMOON 

While  he  imbibed  hot  water  and  nibbled  captain's  bis- 
cuits, or  lay  prone  and  semi-conscious  in  the  clutches  of 
the  hideous  malady  of  the  wave,  Lady  Rustleton,  bright- 
eyed,  petite,  and  beautifully  dressed,  paraded  the  prom- 
enade deck  with  a  tail  of  male  and  female  cronies,  played 
at  quoits  and  croquet,  to  the  delight  of  select  audiences, 
and  sat  in  sheltered  corners  after  dinner,  well  out  of 
the  radius  of  the  electric  light,  sometimes  with  two  or 
three,  generally  with  one,  of  the  best-looking  victims  of 
her  bow  and  spear.  She  sat  on  the  Captain 's  right  hand 
at  the  center  table,  outrageously  bedecked  with  dia- 
monds. She  played  in  a  musical  sketch  and  sang  at  a 
charity  concert.  ' '  Buzzy,  Buzzy,  Busy  Bee ' '  was  thence- 
forth to  be  heard  in  every  corner  of  the  vast  maritime 
hotel  that  was  hurrying  its  guests  Westward  at  the  ut- 
most speed  of  steel  and  steam.  Fresh  bouquets  of  Mal- 
maison  carnations,  roses  and  violets  from  the  Piccadilly 
florists,  were  continually  heaped  upon  her  shrine,  dainty 
jeweled  miniature  representations  of  the  Regent  Street's 
house-flag,  boxes  of  choice  bonbons  showered  upon  her 
like  rain.  The  celebrated  orang-utan  occupied  the  chair 
next  hers  at  a  special  banquet,  the  newest  modes  in  mil- 
linery found  their  way  mysteriously  to  her  apartment, 
if  she  had  but  tried  them  on,  smiled,  and,  with  the  in- 
imitable Petsie  wink  at  the  reflection  of  her  own  pro- 
vokingly  pretty  features  in  the  shop  mirror,  approved. 
"I  keep  forgetting  I'm  a  married  woman,"  she  would 
say,  with  the  Petsie  smile,  when  elderly  ladies  of  the 
cat-like  type,  and  middle-aged  men  who  were  malicious, 
inquired  after  the  health  of  the  invisible  Lord  Rustle- 
ton.  "But  he's  there,  poor  dear;  or  as  much  as  is  left 
of  him.  Quite  contented  if  he  gets  his  milk  and  beef- 
juice,  and  the  hot  water  comes  regularly,  and  there's  a 
slice  of  lemon  to  suck.  No ;  I  'm  afraid  I  can 't  give  him 
your  kind  message  of  sympathy,  you  know,  because  sym- 
pathy is  too  disturbing,  he  says.  .  .  .  He  doesn't  even 


A    HINDERED    HONEYMOON         305 

like  me  to  ask  him  if  he 's  feeling  bad,  because,  as  he  tells 
me,  I  have  only  to  look  at  him  to  know  that  he  is,  poor 
darling. ' ' 

Thus  prattled  the  bride,  even  ready  to  fcuire  I'ingenue 
for  the  benefit  of  even  an  audience  of  one.  The  voyage 
agreed  with  Petsie.  Her  complexion,  dulled  by  make-up, 
assumed  a  healthier  tint;  her  eyes  and  smile  grew 
brighter,  even  as  the  ruddy  gold  faded  from  her  abun- 
dant hair.  The  end  of  this  story  would  have  been  com- 
pletely different  had  not  the  tricksy  sea-air  brought 
about  this  deplorable  change. 

"I'm  getting  dreadfully  rusty,  as  you  say,  Simpkie; 
and  if  the  man  in  the  hairdresser's  shop  on  the  Prom- 
enade Deck  Arcade  can  give  me  a  shampoodle  and  touch 
me  up  a  bit — quite  an  artist  is  he,  and  quite  the  gentle- 
man? Oh,  very  well,  I'll  look  in  on  my  gentleman- 
artist  between  breakfast  and  bouillon." 

Petsie  did  look  in.  The  artist's  studio,  elegantly  hung 
with  heavy  pink  plush  curtains,  only  contained,  besides 
a  shampooing-basin,  a  large  mirror,  a  nickel-silver  in- 
strument of  a  type  between  a  chimney-cowl  and  a  ship 's 
ventilator,  and  a  client's  chair,  a  young  person  of  in- 
gratiating manners,  who  offered  Lady  Rustleton  the 
chair,  and  enveloping  her  dainty  person  in  a  starchy 
pink  wrapper,  touched  a  bell,  and  saying,  ' '  The  operator 
will  attend  immediately,  moddam,"  glided  noiselessly 
away.  Petsie,  approvingly  surveying  her  image  in  the 
mirror,  did  not  hear  a  male  footstep  behind  her.  But 
as  the  head  and  shoulders  of  the  operator  rose  above  the 
level  of  her  topmost  waves,  and  his  reflected  gaze  en- 
countered her  own,  she  became  ghastly  pale  beneath  her 
rose-bloom,  and  with  a  little  choking  cry  of  recognition 
gasped  out: 

"Bill  .  .  .  Boman!  ...  it  can't  be  you?" 

"The  old  identical  same,"  Mr.  William  Boman  said, 
with  a  cheerful  smile.  "And  if  the  shock  has  made  you 


306         A    HINDERED    HONEYMOON 

giddy,  I  can  turn  on  the  basin-hose  in  half  a  tick,  and 
give  you  a  splash  of  cold  as  a  reviver.  Will  you  have 
it?  No?  Then  don't  faint,  that's  all." 

"You  wrote  to  say  you  were  dying  at  Dieppe  five 
years  ago,"  sobbed  Petsie,  into  the  folds  of  the  pink 
calico  wrapper.  ' '  You  wicked,  cruel  man,  you  know  you 
did!" 

"And  now  you're  crying  because  I  didn't  die,"  said 
Mr.  Boman,  arranging  his  sable  forehead-curls  in  the 
glass,  and  complacently  twirling  a  highly-waxed  mus- 
tache. ' '  No  pleasing  you  women.  You  never  know  what 
you  want,  strikes  me. ' ' 

1 '  But  somebody  sent  me  a  French  undertaker 's  bill  for 
a  first-class  funeral,  nearly  thirty  pounds  it  came  to 
when  we'd  got  the  francs  down  to  sovereigns,"  moaned 
Petsie,  "and  I  paid  it." 

"That  was  my  little  dodge,"  said  Mr.  Boman  calmly, 
"to  get  a  few  yellow-birds  to  go  on  with.  Trouble  I'd 
got  into — don't  say  any  more  about  it,  because  I  am  a 
reformed  character  now.  And  now  we're  talking  about 
characters,  what  price  yours,  my  Lady  Rustleton?" 

"Oh,  Billy!" 

' '  Bigamy  ain  't  a  pretty  word,  but  that 's  what  it  comes 
to,  as  I've  said  to  myself  many  an  evening  as  I  smoked 
my  cigar  on  the  second-class  deck  promenade,  and  heard 
you  singing  away  in  there  to  the  swells  in  the  music- 
room  like  a — like  a  cage  full  of  canaries.  I  shan  't  make 
no  scene  nor  nothing  like  that,  says  I.  Her  hair's  get- 
ting a  bit  off  color — see  it  by  daylight,  she'll  have  to 
come  my  way  before  long,  and  then  I  shall  tip  her  the 
ghost  with  a  vengeance." 

"Oh,  Bill  dear,  how  could  you  be  so  cruel!"  pleaded 
Petsie. 

"Not  so  much  of  the  'Bill  dear,'  I'll  trouble  you," 
said  Mr.  Boman  sternly.  "Why  don't  you  produce  that 
aristocratic  corpse  you've  married,  and  let  me  have  it 


A    HINDERED    HONEYMOON         307 

out  with  him  ?  Seasick,  is  he  ?  I  '11  make  him  land-sick 
before  I  've  done  with  him,  and  so  I  tell  you.  He  '11  have 
to  sell  some  of  his  blooming  acres  to  satisfy  me,  or  some 
of  them  diamonds  of  yours,  my  lady." 

But  at  this  juncture  the  delayed  attack  of  hysteria 
swooped  upon  its  victim.  Summoning  his  young  lady- 
assistant,  Mr.  Boman,  with  a  few  injunctions,  placed  the 
patient  in  her  care.  Then  brushing  a  few  bronze-hued 
hairs  from  his  frock-coat,  removing  his  dapper  apron, 
and  tidying  his  hair  with  a  rapid  application  of  the 
brush,  he  winked  as  one  well  pleased,  and  betook  him- 
self to  Gobelin  Tapestry  Bridal  Suite  Number  Four,  in 
the  character  of  a  Messenger  of  Fate. 

Three  hours  later  the  news  had  leaked  out  all  over 
the  Regent  Street.  The  great  vessel  buzzed  like  a  wasps '- 
nest,  and  the  utmost  resources  of  wireless  telegraphy 
were  taxed  to  communicate  to  sister  ships  upon  the 
ocean  and  fellow-men  upon  the  nearest  land  the  astound- 
ing fact  of  the  sudden  collapse  of  the  Rustleton  mar- 
riage, owing  to  the  arrival  on  the  scene  of  a  previous 
husband  of  the  lady. 

"Ach  Himmel!  it  is  klorious!"  gasped  Funkstein, 
waving  a  pale  blue  paper,  "I  haf  here  Petsie's  reply 
to  de  offer  of  de  Syindigate — she  comes  to  de  Vest  End 
Theatre;  at  an  advanced  salary  returns — and  de  house 
will  be  cram- jammed  to  de  doors  for  anoder  tree  hoon- 
dred  berformances.  It  is  an  ill  vind  dot  to  nopody  plows 
goot,  mark  my  vords!" 

Lord  Pomphrey  had  just  given  utterance  to  a  similar 
sentiment;  Rustleton,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic, 
had  previously  arrived  at  a  like  conclusion.  Mr.  Boman 
had  entertained  the  same  view  from  the  outset  of  affairs. 
Petsie — again  Le  Poyntz — realizing  the  gigantic  adver- 
tisement that  the  resurrection  of  her  first  proprietor 
involved,  was  gradually  becoming  reconciled  to  the  sit- 
uation. When  all  the  characters  of  a  tale  are  made  con- 
tent, is  it  not  time  the  narrative  came  to  a  close? 


"CLOTHES— AND  THE  MAN— I" 

THE  smoking-room  of  the  Younger  Sons'  Club,  the  bow- 
windows  of  which  command  a  view  of  Piccadilly,  con- 
tained at  the  hour  of  two-thirty  its  full  complement  of 
habitual  nicotians,  who,  seated  in  the  comfortable  arm- 
chairs, recumbent  on  the  leather  divans,  or  grouped  upon 
the  hearthrug,  lent  their  energies  with  one  accord  to 
the  thickening  of  the  atmosphere. 

Hambridge  Ost,  a  small,  drab-hued  man  with  a  tri- 
angular face,  streakily-brushed  hair,  champagne-bottle 
shoulders,  and  feet  as  narrow  as  boot-trees  without  the 
detachable  side-pieces,  invariably  encased  in  the  shiniest 
of  patent  leathers, — Hambridge,  from  behind  a  large 
green  cigar,  was  giving  a  select  audience  of  very  young 
and  callow  listeners  the  benefit  of  his  opinions  upon 
dress. 

"If  I  proposed  to  jot  down  the  small  events  of  my  in- 
significant private  life,  dear  fellers,  or  had  the  gift — 
supposing  I  did  commit  'em  to  paper — of  makin '  'em  in- 
teresting ..."  said  Hambridge,  raising  his  eyebrows 
to  the  edge  of  his  carefully  parted  hair  and  letting  them 
down  again,  "I  don't  mind  telling  you,  dear  fellers, 
that  the  resultant  volume  or  two  would  mark  an  epoch 
in  autobiographical  literature.  But,  like  the  violet — so 
to  put  it — I  have,  up  to  the  present,  preferred  to  blush 
unseen.  Not  that  the  violet  can  blush  anything  but  pur- 
ple— or  blue  in  frosty  weather,  but  the  simile  has  up  to 
now  always  held  good  in  literature.  Lord  Pomphrey — 
a  man  appreciative  to  a  degree  of  the  talents  of  his  rela- 
tives— has  said  to  me  a  thousand  times  if  one,  'Con- 
found you,  Hambridge,  why  is  not  that,  or  this,  or  the 

308 


"CLOTHES— AND    THE    MAN—!"    309 

other,  so  to  put  it,  in  print?'  But  Pomphrey  may  be 
partial " 

"No,  no!"  exclaimed,  in  a  very  deep  bass,  a  very 
young  man  in  a  knitted  silk  waistcoat  and  a  singularly 
brilliant  set  of  pimples.  ' '  No,  no ! " 

"Much  obliged,  dear  fellow,"  said  Hambridge,  hoist- 
ing his  eyebrows  and  letting  them  drop  in  his  character- 
istic manner.  ' '  Some  of  my  views  may  possess  original- 
ity— even  freshness  when  expressed,  as  I  invariably  ex- 
press 'em,  in  a  perfectly  commonplace  manner." 

' '  No,  no ! "  again  exclaimed  the  pimply-faced  owner  of 
the  deep  bass  voice. 

"As  to  the  Ethics  of  the  Crinoline,  now,"  went  on 
Hambridge,  "I  observe  that  an  energetic  effort  is  being 
made — in  a  certain  quarter  and  amongst  a  certain  co- 
terie— to  revive  the  discarded  hoops  of  1855-66.  They 
did  their  best  to  impart  a  second  vitality  to  the  Early 
Victorian  poke-bonnet  some  years  ago.  Why  did  the 
effort  fail,  dear  fellers  ?  Because,  with  their  accompany- 
ing garniture  of  modesty,  blushes  were  considered  nec- 
essary to  the  feminine  equipment  at  the  date  I  have  men- 
tioned. And  because  blushes — I  speak  on  the  most  re- 
liable authority — are  more  difficult  to  simulate  than 
tears.  Also  because,  looking  down  the  pink  silk-lined 
tunnel  of  the  poke-bonnet  of  1855-66,  it  was  impossible 
for  you,  as  an  ordinary  male  creature,  to  decide  whether 
the  rosy  glow  invading  the  features  of  the  woman  you 
adored — we  adored  women,  dear  fellows,  at  that  period — 
was  genuine  or  the  reverse.  There  you  have  in  a  nut- 
shell the  reason  why  the  poke-bonnet  was  not  welcomed 
at  the  dawn  of  the  twentieth  century.  Modesty  and 
blushes,  dear  fellers,  are  out  of  date." 

Hambridge  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  an  air  of 
mild  triumph,  running  his  movable  eye — the  left  was 
rigidly  fixed  behind  his  monocle — over  the  faces  of  the 
listeners. 


310    "CLOTHES— AND    THE    MAN—!" 

"Will  the  woman  of  the  Twentieth  Century  willingly 
enclose  her  legs — they  were  limbs  in  1855-66 — once  more 
in  the  steel-barred  calico  cage,  fifteen  feet  in  circum- 
ference, if  not  more,  that  contained  the  woman  of  the 
Early  Victorian  Era?  Dear  fellers,  the  question  fur- 
nishes material  for  an  interestin'  debate.  In  my  young 
days  there  was  no  sittin'  in  ladies'  pockets,  no  cosy- 
cornering,  so  to  put  it.  You  invariably  kept  at  a  re- 
spectful distance  from  the  young  creature  whom  you, 
more  or  less  ardently — we  could  be  ardent  in  those  days 
— desired  to  woo  and  win,  simply  because  you  couldn't 
get  nearer.  You  didn't  approach  her  mother  for  per- 
mission to  pay  your  addresses — her  mother  was  encased 
in  a  similar  panoply.  You  went  to  her  father,  because 
you  could  get  at  him — there  you  have  the  plain,  simple 
reason  of  the  custom  of  'askin'  Papa.'  And  if  you 
were  reprehensibly  desirous  of  eloping  with  another 
fellow's  wife,  you  didn't  express  your  wish  in  words. 
You  wrote  a  letter  invitin '  her  to  fly  with  you — we  called 
it  flying  in  those  days — and  dropped  it  in  the  post.  If 
the  lady  disapproved,  she  dropped  you.  If  not,  she 
bolted  with  you  in  a  chaise  with  four  or  a  pair — and 
even  then  her  crinoline  kept  you  at  a  distance.  You 
were  no  more  at  liberty  to  put  your  arm  round  her  waist 
than  if  the  eye  of  Early  Victorian  Society  had  been 
glued  upon  you. 

"To  put  forward  another  reason  contra  the  reaccept- 
ance  of  the  crinoline  by  the  Woman  of  To-day,  dear  fel- 
lers, the  Woman  of  To-day  can  swim.  Therefore,  the 
advantage  of  being  dressed  practically  in  a  lifebuoy, 
does  not  appeal  to  her  as  it  did  early  in  the  previous 
reign.  I  could  quote  you  an  instance  of  an  accident 
which  occurred  to  the  Dover  and  Calais  paddle-wheel 
steam-packet,  on  board  which  I  happened  to  be  a  pas- 
senger, which,  owing  to  the  negligence  of  the  captain, 
ran  ashore  upon  a  sandbank  half  a  mile  from  the  pier. 


"CLOTHES— AND    THE    MAN—!"    311 

The  first  boat  which  was  lowered  was  filled  with  lady 
passengers,  all  in  crinolines.  It  was  swamped  by  a 
wave  which  washed  over  the  stern.  The  steersman  and 
the  sailors  who  were  rowing  were  unluckily  snatched  to 
a  watery  grave,  poor  fellows.  Not  so  the  women  pas- 
sengers of  the  swamped  boat,  dear  creatures,  who  simply 
floated,  keeping  hold  of  one  another's  scarves  and  bon- 
net-strings, and  so  forth,  until  they  could  be  picked  up 
and  conveyed  ashore.  Not  one  of  'em  could  swim  a 
stroke — and  all  were  saved,  thanks  to  the  crinoline  in 
which  each  was  attired.  But,  useful  as  under  certain 
circumstances  the  birdcage  may  be,  the  Twentieth  Cen- 
tury Woman  will  never  be  tempted  back  into  it.  She 
has  learned  what  it  is  to  have  muscles  and  to  use  'em, 
dear  fellers!  and  the  era  of  languid  inertia  is  over  for 
her. 

"I  will  add,  dear  fellers,  that  in  these  drab  and  un- 
commonly dismal  days  of  early  December,  the  dash  of 
color  now  perceptible  in  the  clothes  of  the  best  dressed 
men  present  at  social  functions  of  the  superior  sort,  adds 
largely  to  the  cheeriness  of  the  scene.  Cela  me  fait  cet 
effet,  dear  fellers,  but  of  course  I  may  be  wrong.  And 
the  first  man  to  adopt  and  appear  in  the  newest  style  in 
evenin'  dress — a  bright  blue  coat  of  fine  faced  cloth, 
with  black  velvet  collar,  velvet  cuffs,  and  silk  facin's, 
worn  with  trousers  of  the  same  material,  braided  with 
black  down  the  side  seams,  and  a  V-cut  vest  of  white 
Irish  silk  poplin — has  realized  a  fortune  through  it. 

"A  well-known  man,  dear  fellers,  connected  with  two 
old  Tory  families  of  the  highest  distinction,  educated  at 
Eton,  popular  at  the  University — where  he  did  not  al- 
low his  love  of  study  to  interfere  with  the  more  serious 
pursuit  of  sport — d'ye  take  me?  Suppose  we  call  him 
Eric  de  Peauchamp-Walmerdale.  His  marriage  took 
place  yesterday  at  St.  Neot's,  Knightsbridge,  the  sacred 
edifice  bein'  decorated  with  large  lilies  and  white  chrys- 


312    "CLOTHES— AND    THE    MAN—!" 

anthemums,  and  the  gatherin'  of  guests  surprisingly 
large — the  biggest  crush  of  the  Season  as  yet.  There 
were  six  little  girl-hridesmaids  in  pale  blue,  with  dia- 
mond lockets,  and  the  bride's  train  was  carried  by  four 
pages,  also  in  pale  blue,  with  gold-headed  canes.  As 
for  the  bride,  considerin'  her  age — a  cool  seventy — sur- 
prisin',  dear  fellers!  Only  daughter  and  heiress  of  an 
ex-butler,  who  invented  a  paste  for  cleanin'  plate,  pat- 
ented it,  and  became  a  millionaire,  Isaac  Shyne,  Esq., 
M.P.,  of  The  Beeches,  Wopsley,  and  710,  Park  Lane, 
deceased  ten  years  ago  at  the  ripe  age  of  ninety. 

"De  Peauchamp-Walmerdale 's  married  sister  lived 
next  door  to  the  rich  Miss  Shyne,  who  practically  went 
nowhere,  and  only  received  her  Nonconformist  minister, 
and  a  few  whist-playin'  friends  of  the  same  denomina- 
tion on  certain  specified  evenin's.  House  absolutely 
Early  Victorian — walnut-wood  drawing-room  suite,  up- 
holstered in  green  silk  rep,  mahogany  and  brown  leather 
for  the  dinin'-room.  Berlin  woolwork  curtains,  worked 
by  the  mistress  of  the  house,  at  all  the  front  windows. 
Three  parrots,  two  poodles,  and  a  pair  of  King  Charles 
spaniels  of  the  obsolete  miniature  breed.  Maid-servants 
— all  elderly,  butler  like  a  bishop,  uncommon  good  cellar 
of  gouty  old  Madeiras  and  sherries,  laid  down  by  the  de- 
funct Shyne,  awful  collection  of  pictures  by  Smith, 
Jones,  Brown,  and  Robinson,  splendid  plate,  too  heavy 
to  lift.  And  a  fortune  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand in  the  most  reliable  Home  Bails  and  breweries,  be- 
sides an  estate  of  sixty  thousand  acres  in  Crannshire, 
and  the  title  deeds  of  the  Park  Lane  house. 

"It  came — the  idea  of  bringing  Miss  Shyne  and  De 
Peauchamp-Walmerdale  together — like  a  flash  of  in- 
spiration— as  the  dear  feller's  sister,  Lady  Tewsminster, 
told  me  yesterday  when  people  had  struggled  up  after 
the  Psalm,  and  yawned  through  the  address,  not  deliv- 
ered by  a  Nonconformist,  but  by  the  Bishop  of  Baxter- 


"CLOTHES— AND    THE    MAN—!"    313 

ham ;  and  while  the  choir  were  singin ', '  0  Perfect  Love ! ' 
She  was  frightfully  cast  down  when  she  discovered 
through  her  maid,  who  had  scraped,  under  orders,  an  ac- 
quaintance with  Miss  Shyne's  elderly  confidential  at- 
tendant, that  her  lady  objected  to  young  gentlemen — 
couldn  't  endure  the  sight,  so  to  put  it,  of  anything  mas- 
culine under  fifty,  or  without  a  bulge  under  the  waist- 
coat, and  a  bald  top  to  its  head.  Further  inquiries  elic- 
ited that  Miss  Shyne  had  had  a  disappointment  in  early 
life,  and  wore  at  the  back  of  an  old-fashioned  cameo 
brooch,  representin'  the  'Choice  of  Paris,'  the  portrait 
on  ivory  of  a  handsome  young  man  with  fair  hair,  the 
livin'  image  of  Eric  de  Peauchamp-Walmerdale,  in  a 
light  blue  tail-coat,  with  a  black  velvet  collar  and  gold 
buttons,  holding  a  King  Charles  spaniel  of  the  miniature 
breed  under  his  arm. 

"Dear  fellers,  Lady  Tewsminster,  the  evening  upon 
which  she  received  this  item  of  information,  knew  no 
more  than  a  newly-born  infant  what  she  was  going  to 
do  with  it.  As  happens  to  most  of  us,  she  mentally  filed 
it  for  further  reference,  and  getting  into  her  gown,  her 
diamonds,  and  her  evening  coiffure — those  Etruscan 
rolled  curls  are  extremely  becoming  to  a  woman  of  pro- 
nounced outlines,  and  there's  only  one  place  in  London, 
she  telk  me,  where  they  can  be  bought  or  redressed — 
went  down  to  the  drawing-room. 

"A  small  but  select  party  had  been  invited  for  the 
evenin',  including,  on  the  feminine  side,  an  American 
heiress  on  the  lookout  for  a  husband  with  a  title — or, 
at  least,  the  next  heir  to  one — a  handsome  widow  with 
a  fairly  decent  jointure,  and  a  couple  of  marriageable 
girls  with  almost  quite  respectable  dots.  From  these, 
carefully  collected  on  approval  by  a  devoted  sister,  De 
Peauchamp-Walmerdale  might,  who  knows?  have  se- 
lected a  life  partner,  and  sunk  into  the  obscurity  of 
moderate  means  for  ever,  had  it  not  occurred  to  him 


314    "CLOTHES— AND    THE    MAN—!" 

upon  that  particular  evening — do  you  take  me,  dear  fel- 
lers ? — to  array  himself  in  the  latest  cry  of  modern  mas- 
culine evening  dress. 

' '  He  was  standing  on  the  hearthrug  when  Lady  Tews- 
minster  entered,  a  tall,  slim,  youthful  figure,  fair-haired 
and  complexioned,  and  quite  uncommonly  handsome,  in 
his  light  blue  coat  with  the  black  velvet  collar,  braided 
accompaniments,  and  pearl-buttoned,  watch-chainless, 
white  silk  vest. 

' '  ' How  do  you  like  me,  Ju,  old  girl  ? '  he  said,  coming 
to  kiss  her.  'I've  come  to  dine  in  character  as  our 
great-grandfather.  Awful  fool  I  feel,  but  my  tailor 
insisted  on  my  wearin'  'em,  and  as  I  owe  the  brute  a 
frightful  bill  I  thought  I'd  best  appease  him  by  givin' 
in.' 

"The  gilded  Early  Victorian  frame  of  the  high  man- 
tel-mirror behind  De  Peauchamp-Walmerdale  had  the 
effect  of  being  a  frame,  if  you  foller  me,  out  of  which, 
the  figure  of  the  dear  feller  had  stepped.  A  cameo 
brooch  shot  into  the  mind  of  Lady  Tewsminster,  above  it 
the  long  narrow  face  and  dowdy  black  lace  bonnet  of 
the  heiress,  Miss  Jane  Ann  Shyne.  A  plan  of  campaign 
was  instantly  formulated  in  the  mind  of  that  surprising 
woman.  She  stepped  to  one  of  the  windows  commandin ' 
Park  Lane,  drew  aside  the  blind,  and  saw,  paddlin'  up 
and  down  on  the  rainy  pavement  outside,  the  water- 
proofed figure  of  Miss  Shyne 's  confidential  maid,  taking 
the  King  Charles  spaniels  and  the  poodles  for  their  cus- 
tomary evenin'  ta-ta.  Instantly  she  touched  the  bell, 
sent  for  her  maid  and  said  to  her  in  a  rapid  undertone, 
'Johnson,  ten  pounds  are  yours  if  you  can  steal  one 
of  Miss  Shyne 's  pet  King  Charles  spaniels  while  their 
attendant  is  not  looking.  There  is  no  risk — I  shall  send 
the  creature  back  in  ten  minutes.  Will  you  undertake 
this  ?  Yes  ?  Very  well,  go  and  get  the  beast. ' 

"The  maid,  Johnson,  departed  swiftly,  the  area-gate 


"CLOTHES— AND    THE    MAN—!"    315 

clicked,  and  Lady  Tewsminster,  feverish  with  the  great 
project  boiling  under  her  transformation,  paced  the 
drawing-room  until  she  heard  the  second  click  of  the 
gate.  She  swept  down  the  stairs  to  meet  Johnson,  in 
whose  black  silk  apron  struggled  the  smallest  of  the 
King  Charles  spaniels.  '  Did  the  woman  see  ? '  whispered 
the  mistress.  'Not  a  bit  of  her,  my  lady,'  returned  the 
maid.  'She  was  gossiping  with  the  District  Police- 
Inspector  about  a  burglary  they've  had  three  doors 
away.  So  I  got  Tottles — that's  his  name,  my  lady — quite 
easy,  not  being  on  a  lead. ' 

"Telling  the  maid  the  promised  ten  pounds  should  be 
hers  that  night,  Lady  Tewsminster  snatched  the  strug- 
gling 'Tottles'  from  the  enveloping  apron  and  swept 
back  to  her  drawing-room  to  carry  out  her  plan. 
'Peachie  dear,'  she  said  as  she  entered,  'it  would  be 
frightfully  sweet  of  you  if  you  would  run  in  next  door 
and  carry  this  little  beast  to  its  owner,  Miss  Shyne. 
Insist  on  seeing  her;  do  not  give  the  animal  into  any 
other  hands;  do  not  wear  your  hat  or  an  overcoat.  I 
am  firm  upon  this ;  and  remember, '  she  fixed  her  large, 
expressive  eyes  full  upon  her  brother 's  face,  '  remember, 
she  has  nearly  two  hundred  thousand  pounds,  and  your 
fate  is  in  ypur  own  hands!  .  .  .  Go!' 

"Rather  bewildered  by  Lady  Tewsminster 's  almost 
tragic  address,  De  Peauchamp-Walmerdale  took  the 
wriggling  Tottles,  left  the  house,  and  carried  out  his  in- 
structions to  the  letter.  The  loss  of  Tottles  had  been 
discovered.  Miss  Shyne 's  establishment  was  topsy- 
turvy when  he  arrived,  servants  tearing  up  and  down 
stairs,  the  confidential  attendant  in  tears  on  a  hall  chair, 
Miss  Shyne  in  hysterics  in  her  Early  Victorian  boudoir, 
the  remaining  dogs  barking  their  heads  off,  and  the  very 
devil  to  pay.  But  the  arrival  of  De  Peauchamp-Wal- 
merdale, dear  fellers,  caused  a  lull  in  the  storm.  Faith- 
ful to  his  instructions,  he  refused  to  give  up  the  dog,  ex- 


316    "CLOTHES— AND    THE    MAN—!" 

cept  to  its  mistress,  and  after  a  feint  or  two  of  depart- 
ure, Miss  Shyne  gave  in  and  ordered  her  fate,  as  it 
turned  out  to  be — d'ye  f oiler  me? — to  be  shown  up- 
stairs. 

"The  Early  Victorian  drawing-room,  with  the  green 
rep  furniture  and  the  Berlin  woolwork  curtains — a  pat- 
tern of  macaws  and  dahlias,  I  understood — was  in  par- 
tial darkness.  Only  the  wax  candles  in  the  crystal  can- 
delabra on  the  marble  mantelshelf  were  alight,  no  elec- 
tric illuminations  bein'  permitted  on  the  premises. 

"De  Peauchamp-Walmerdale — dog  under  his  arm — 
took  up  a  commandin'  position  on  the  hearthrug,  also 
worked  in  Berlin  wool,  in  front  of  a  small,  mysterious 
and  palely-twinkling  fire.  As  he  did  so  the  f oldin '  doors 
opposite,  communicating  with  the  boudoir,  slowly 
opened,  and  Miss  Jane  Ann  Shyne,  spinster,  aged  sev- 
enty, saw  before  her  the  long-dead  romance  of  her  youth, 
resuscitated  from  the  ashes  of — wherever  long-dead  ro- 
mances are  deposited,  dear  fellers.  There  was  a  faint, 
feminine  scream — quite  Early  Victorian  in  character — a 
rustle  of  old-fashioned  satins — an  outburst  of  joyous 
barks  from  Tottles,  a  strong,  bewildering  perfume  of 
lavender  water  (triple  extract),  and  the  old  lady  sank, 
literally  sank,  upon  the  white  Irish  poplin  vest  that 
added  style  and  cachet  to  De  Peauchamp-Walmerdale 's 
uncommonly  fetchin'  costume. 

"What  more,  dear  fellers?  The  couple  were  united 
yesterday  at  St.  Neot's,  Knightsbridge.  Every  penny  is 
settled  on  De  Peauchamp-Walmerdale,  and  Lady  Tews- 
minster  says  she  can  now  die  happy,  her  dear  boy  being 
provided  for,  for  life.  She  naturally  claims  the  hon- 
ors of  the  affair!  Quite  so,  but  without  the  clothes 
where  would  the  man  have  been  ?  D  'ye  f  oiler  me,  dear 
fellers  ?  In  my  poor  opinion,  the  principal  factor  in  the 
making  of  De  Peauchamp-Walmerdale 's  fortune  was  the 
Man  Behind  the  Shears.  Do  you  f  oiler  me?  So  glad! 
Thought  you  would." 


THE  DEVIL  AND  THE  DEEP  SEA 

"  'LET  us  be  consistent/  "  said  Lady  Pomphrey,  her 
three  saddle-bag  chins  quivering  with  emotion,  "  'or  let 
us  die' — that  is  what  I  have  always  said.  Here  is  my 
only  niece,  "Wendoleth  Caer-Brydglingbury,  goes — ac- 
tually goes — and  marries  a  Liberal  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment in  a  red  necktie — who  makes  speeches  in  town- 
halls  and  tents,  and  things,  to  masses  of  people,  all  about 
pulling  down  the  House  of  Lords  and  abolishing  the 
Peerage,  and  absolutely  declines  to  allow  his  wife  to 
drop  her  title.  To  you — so  intimate  a  friend,  don't  you 
know? — I  may  say  in  confidence  I  am  sickened.  I  can- 
not imagine  what  the  world  is  coming  to.  I  could  wish 
to  die  and  leave  it,  were  it  not  that  Jane  and  Charlotte 
are  still  unmarried,  and  I  have  promised  to  present  three 
of  the  sweetest  girls — well-bred  Americans  of  the  best 
type,  without  a  trace  of  accent — at  the  first  Drawing- 
room  of  the  Winter  Season.  And  the  family  diamonds 
are  being  reset  in  view  of  Rustleton's  approaching  mar- 
riage— a  union  satisfactory  from  every  point  of  view, 
especially  a  mother 's. ' ' 

Lady  Pomphrey  paused  for  breath,  and  the  intimate 
friend — they  had  met  at  Bad  Smellstein  a  fortnight  pre- 
viously while  taking  little  early  morning  walks,  and 
drinking  little  glasses  of  excessively  nauseous  waters 
warranted  to  correct  the  most  aristocratic  acidity — the 
intimate  friend  murmured  something  sympathetic. 

' '  Of  course,  I  might  have  known  one  could  look  to  you 
for  comprehension  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, ' '  said  Lady 
Pomphrey,  graciously  bending  her  head,  which  was  en- 

317 


318    THE    DEVIL    AND    THE    DEEP    SEA 

veloped  in  a  large  mushroom  hat  of  blue  straw  tied 
down  all  round  with  a  drab  silk  veil,  and  patting  the 
intimate  friend  upon  the  knee  with  the  stick  of  her  cele- 
brated green  silk  sunshade.  "One  of  those  delightful 
literary  creatures — was  it  Algernon  Meredith  or  George 
Swinburne? — has  termed  friendship  'the  marriage  of 
true  minds. '  Ever  since  the  Hambridge-Osts  introduced 
us — in  a  thunderstorm — at  the  firework  display  in  the 
Park  in  honor  of  the  Grand  Duke 's  birthday — and  being 
Sunday,  I  will  own  that  the  nerve-shattering  meteoro- 
logical demonstrations  that  drove  us  to  shelter  in  that 
extremely  leaky  Chinese  pavilion  seemed  to  me  but  a 
judgment  upon  German  Sabbath-breakers — ours  has 
been  such  a  union.  Cemented  by  your  helpfulness  in 
the  matter  of  sandbags  for  a  rattling  window — Lord 
Pomphrey  is  completely  impervious  to  all  such  nerve- 
shattering  tortures,  and  will  sleep  happily  in  his  cabin 
on  the  yacht  in  Cowes  Roads  through  a  Royal  Naval  Re- 
view— and  your  timely  ministrations  with  soda-mint  loz- 
enges when  acute  indigestion  virtually  prostrated  me 
after  a  homicidal  plat  of  eels  with  cranberry-sauce,  of 
which  I  foolishly  partook  at  the  table  d'hote.  The  mys- 
teriousness  of  it  allured  me.  I  wished  for  once  to  feel 
like  a  German.  Now  I  feel  assured  their  extraordinary 
diet  accounts  for  much  that  is  abstruse  and  metaphysical 
in  the  national  character.  For  you  cannot  possibly  be 
normal  if  you  are  fed  upon  abnormal  things.  And  I  am 
grateful  that  Rustleton  has  never  shown  himself  in  the 
least  susceptible  to  the  attractions  of  their  women.  I 
know — almost  quite  intimately — a  Grand  Duchess  who 
has  brought  up  every  one  of  her  nine  young  daughters 
upon  red-cabbage  soup,  with  sausage-meat  balls  and 
dumplings;  and  somehow  it  is  suggested  in  the  girls' 
complexions  and  figures — especially  the  dumplings." 

The  friend  tittered.    Lady  Pomphrey  placed  upon  the 
seat  beside  her  a  straw  handbag  containing  a  Tauchnitz 


THE    DEVIL    AND    THE    DEEP    SEA    319 

edition  of  the  last  new  Mudie  novel,  a  black  fan,  a  large 
bottle  of  frightfully  strong  salts,  several  spare  pocket- 
handkerchiefs,  several  indelible-ink  pencils,  and  a  quan- 
tity of  obsolete  railway  tickets,  and  became  more  con- 
fidential than  ever. 

"Had  I  been  consulted  by  destiny  when  the  arrange- 
ment of  Rustleton's  matrimonial  future  came  sur  le 
tapis  I  could  not — with  my  expiring  breath  I  would  re- 
peat this — could  not  be  more  completely  satisfied.  It 
began  by  his  hating  her.  .  .  .  She  hit  him  on  the  nose 
with  a  diabolo  in  June  at  Eanelagh,  and,  'Mother,'  he 
said  afterwards  to  me — his  upper  lip  perfectly  rigid 
with  wounded  dignity — 'I  should  have  greatly  preferred" 
to  have  been  born  in  the  days  of  ' '  Coningsby, "  or  "  Lo- 
thair."  Muscular  young  women  create  in  me  a  feeling 
of  positive  aversion!'  He  found  her  agitating  even  at 
that  early  stage  of  affairs?  How  subtle  of  you  to  see 
that!" 

The  flattered  friend  murmured  an  interrogation. 

"Who  is  she?"  repeated  Lady  Pomphrey.  "But 
surely  the  newspapers?  .  .  .  You  suffer  too  acutely 
from  dancing  spots  in  the  field  of  vision  ever  to  read 
when  undergoing  a  cure?  .  .  .  Poor  dear,  I  can  feel 
for  you.  She  is  the  Hon.  Celine  Twissing — will  be  Bar- 
oness Twissing  of  Hopsacks  in  her  own  right  when  old 
Lord  Twissing  dies.  He  insisted  upon  that  arrangement 
in  the  interests  of  his  only  child;  when  the  intimation 
was  conveyed  from  a  Certain  Quarter  that  the  Jubilee 
Baronetcy  he  already  enjoyed  would  be  changed  into  a 
Peerage  did  he  encourage  the  idea.  Quite  a  bluff  old 
English  type,  and  I  must  say  in  hospitality  Imperial. 
' Twissing 's  Bonded  Breweries.'  ...  A  colossal  for- 
tune, and  that  sweet  girl  is  to  inherit  nearly  the  whole. 
Shall  I  say  that  my  heart  went  out  to  her  from  the  first 
instant  I  saw  her?  As  a  mother  yourself,  you  will  un- 
derstand !  Here  comes  the  young  woman  with  the  tray 


320    THE    DEVIL    AND    THE    DEEP    SEA 

for  our  glasses.  Ja,  bitte,  Ick  danke  Sie.  .  .  .  You 
don't  mean  to  tell  me  the  creature  is  a  Cockney!  .  .  . 
How  distressing!  I  may  be  fanciful,  possibly  I  am," 
said  Lady  Pomphrey,  ' '  but  I  do  prefer  my  surroundings 
to  be  congruous  and  in  tone.  I'm  sure  you  feel  what 
I  convey?  You  do?  How  nice  that  is!  .  .  ." 

The  friend  smiled  and  inaudibly  murmured  something. 

"Of  course,"  cried  Lady  Pomphrey,  "you're  on 
thorns  to  hear  all  about  Rustleton's  love-match.  As  I 
told  you,  Celine  Twissing — the  Christian  name  has  been 
Gallicized  from  Selina — and  why  on  earth  not?  Celine 
is  an  expert  at  diabolo.  It's  a  knack,  sending  these  lit- 
tle black  and  red  demons  as  high  as  a  house,  or  into 
your  neighbor's  eye;  and  she  is  a  talented  as  well  as 
a  charming  girl.  With  three  languages,  several  sciences, 
a  system  of  physical-culture  exercises,  golf,  tennis,  and 
the  laws  of  hockey  at  her  finger-ends,  she  would  have 
gone  far  in  these  days  of  violent  recreations  and  brusque 
manners,  even  without  a  dot.  Masculine?  Oh  dear  no! 
Perhaps  deficient  in  reverence  for  what  we  were  taught 
to  believe  in  as  the  superior  sex.  Perhaps  lacking  in 
feminine  finesse.  I  have  heard  it  said  that  the  girl  of 
the  twentieth  century  cannot  cajole,  and  is  ignorant  how 
to  be  alluring.  Perhaps  it  is  a  pity.  The  woman  who 
has  a  gift  of  managing  difficult  people,  smoothing  absurd 
people  down,  and  being  perfectly  amiable  to  the  abso- 
lutely objectionable  is  practically  priceless  as  a  greaser 
of  the  social  cog-wheels.  Now  Celine  calls  that  sort  of 
woman,  plumply  and  plainly,  a  hypocrite.  .  .  .  But  is 
it  not  a  woman's  duty  to  be  a  hypocrite,  if  telling  the 
truth  to  everybody  makes  the  world  a  place  of  gnash- 
ing?" demanded  Lady  Pomphrey,  making  her  eyebrows 
climb  up  out  of  sight  under  the  shadow  of  her  mush- 
room hat. 

The  compliant  friend  assented. 

"You  understand,  then,  how  dissonant  was  the  chord 


THE  DEVIL  AND  THE  DEEP  SEA 

Celine  Twissing  struck  in  Eustleton.  With  his  Plan- 
tagenet  dash  in  the  blood,  his  hereditary  intolerance  of 
anything  smacking  of  vulgarity,  his  medieval  attitude  of 
chivalry  towards  Woman,  his  Early  Victorian  dislike  of 
the  outre  and  the  bizarre,  he  frankly  found  her  intoler- 
able. 'In  a  drawing-room,'  he  said  to  me  in  confidence, 
'that  girl  reminds  me  of  a  Polar  bear  in  a  hothouse.' 
Where  the  boy  could  have  seen  one  I  cannot  imagine — 
probably  it  was  only  a  young  man's  daring  figure  of 
speech.  Shall  we  walk  about  a  little?  I  think  I  felt  a 
twinge. ' ' 

The  friend  agreed,  and,  gently  ambling  up  and  down 
the  Kreuzbrunnen  Promenade,  Lady  Pomphrey  contin- 
ued her  narrative. 

"Rustleton  said  she  was  a  New  Girl  of  the  worst  type. 
Then  came  the  diabolo  affair,  which,  considering  Ce- 
line 's  remarkable  knack,  I  cannot  think  accidental.  The 
bridge  of  Eustleton 's  nose  was  seriously  contused,  and 
his  monocle  was  shattered — fortunately  without  danger 
to  the  eye.  He  took  no  revenge  beyond  an  epigram, 
quite  worthy  of  La  Rochefou — what's  his  name?  .  .  . 
She  is  keen  on  dancing,  unlike  other  muscular  girls; 
and  said  so  in  my  boy's  near  vicinity.  'Why  not?  She 
has  hops  in  her  blood/  he  uttered.  Of  course,  a  little 
bird  carried  it  to  her  ear.  .  .  .  How  d'ye  do,  Lady 
Frederica  ?  How  d  'ye  do,  Count  Pyffer  ?  I  quite  agree 
with  you.  .  .  .  Piercing  winds,  varied  by  muggy  air- 
lessness  and  a  distressingly  relaxing  warmth,  have  made 
the  last  eight  days  intolerable.  .  .  .  My  dear,  where 
was  I  when  I  left  off?"  The  suffering  friend  indi- 
cated the  point.  Lady  Pomphrey  continued: 

"And  after  all  they  have  come  together.  Quite  a 
romance.  If  a  mother's  prayers  have  any  influence, 
.  .  .  and  I  am  old-fashioned  enough  to  believe  they  have. 
.  .  .  But  I  knew  Bustleton  too  well  to  breathe  a  hint 
of  my  hopes.  I  did  not  stoop  to  intrigue,  as  some  moth- 


322    THE    DEVIL    AND    THE    DEEP    SEA 

ers  would,  to  bring  the  young  people  together.  But 
dearest  Jane,  who  is  always  my  right  hand,  conceived 
a  devoted  friendship  for  Celine  just  at  the  psychological 
moment,,  and  owing  to  that  she  and  Eustleton  were  con- 
stantly thrown  in  each  other's  way.  Celine  quite  ex- 
erted herself  to  be  overwhelmingly  unpleasant.  Jane 
says  that  during  a  bicycling  excursion  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  our  place  at  Cluckham-Pomphrey,  she  offered  to 
help  him  to  lift  his  machine  over  a  stile,  and  would  have 
done  it  unaided  and  alone  if  Kustleton  had  not  peremp- 
torily seized  the  frame-bar,  gripping  both  her  hands  in 
his.  On  Jane's  authority,  she  crimsoned  to  the  hat, 
throwing  him  off  like  a  feather,  and,  mounting  her  ma- 
chine, was  out  of  sight  in  an  instant.  He  was  icily  sar- 
castic on  the  subject  of  muscular  young  women  all  the 
way  home,  and  limited  his  dinner  to  clear  soup  and  a 
single  cutlet  with  dry  toast,  while  Celine  went  through 
all  the  courses  in  her  usual  thoroughgoing  way.  They 
are  not  in  the  least  ashamed  to  eat,  do  you  notice? — 
these  golfing,  hockey-playing,  open-air  young  people. 
.  .  .  Now  you  and  I  can  recall  placing  a  solid  barrier 
of  five  o'clock  cake  and  muffins  between  undue  appetite 
and  the  eight  o'clock  dinner,  at  which  we  merely  toyed 
with  our  knives  and  forks,  trusting  to  our  maids  to  have 
a  tray  of  cold  eatables  ready  in  the  bedroom  for  con- 
sumption while  our  hair  was  being  brushed.  Of  course! 
'but  these  girls  devour  at  tea,  wolf  at  dinner' — I  quote 
Rustleton — 'and  probably  stodge  sandwiches  and  cold 
chicken  and  chocolate-wafers  before  they  plunge  into 
their  beds.  When  there,  how  they  must  snore!' 

' '  His  eye  gleamed  with  such  feverish  malignancy  as  he 
said  this,  that  I  involuntarily  dropped  a  quantity  of 
stitches  in  the  silk  necktie  I  was  knitting  for  him — a 
soothing  neutral  shade  not  calculated  to  call  attention 
to  the  tinge  of  bile  in  his  complexion — and  exclaimed, 
'Good  Heavens!'  He  immediately  begged  my  pardon 


THE    DEVIL    AND    THE    DEEP    SEA    323 

and  bade  me  'good-night,'  whispering  that  he  had  ar- 
ranged to  shoot  over  the  lower  sixty  acres  with  Stub- 
bins,  the  head  keeper — purely  as  a  filial  duty,  Pomphrey 
not  feeling  robust  enough  to  undertake  it  this  year.  .  .  . 
"Whether  it  was  my  having  breathed  a  hint  of  this 
to  Jane — who  is,  as  a  rule,  a  grave  for  chance  confidence 
— or  whether  Miss  Twissing  had  overheard,  how  can  I 
say?  But  she  and  Stubbins  were  waiting  for  my  boy 
on  the  following  morning,  Stubbins — who  loathes  sport- 
ing women — in  a  state  of  complacency  that  only  a  five- 
pound  note  could  have  brought  about.  Her  beautiful 
Bond-street  self-ejecting  breechloader,  her  cap,  tweeds, 
and  gaiters  were  the  dernier  cri,  and  with  the  coolest 
self-possession  she  wiped  my  poor  boy's  eye  over  and 
over  again.  Out  of  thirty  brace  of  birds  before  luncheon 
only  three  and  a  half  fell  to  his  gun,  and  those  were  of 
the  red-legged  French  description,  'bred  for  duffers  to 
blaze  at, '  according  to  Lord  Pomphrey.  Rustleton  went 
up  to  town  that  night,  charging  Jane  with  all  sorts  of 
civil  messages  for  Miss  Twissing,  and  slept  at  his  Club, 
which  was  being  painted  and  disagreed  with  him  excess- 
ively." 

The  friend  sighed  sympathy. 

"Even  with  every  door  and  window  open  and  a  flat 
dish  full  of  milk  upon  the  washstand,"  said  Lady  Pom- 
phrey, taking  the  friend's  arm  and  emphasizing  her  ut- 
terances with  the  green  sunshade,  "white  paint  per- 
meates my  whole  being  in  a  way  that  is  perfectly  inde- 
scribable. My  son  inherits  my  receptiveness — perhaps 
my  weakness — indeed,  he  came  into  the  world  at  Cluck- 
ham-Pomphrey  during  an  early  visit  of  ours,  subsequent 
to  spring-cleaning,  where,  owing  to  an  unhappy  facility 
possessed  by  Lord  Pomphrey  of  being  easily  persuaded 
by  self-interested  persons,  the  hall  screen,  grand  stair- 
case, and  all  the  Jacobean  paneling  had  been  covered  by 
the  local  decorator  with  a  creamy-hued,  turpentiny  and 


THE  DEVIL  AND  THE  DEEP  SEA 

glutinous  mixture  known  as  'Eggster's  Exquisite  En- 
amel.' It  cost  a  fortune  to  get  off  again,  and  some  of 
it  still  lingers  in  the  crevices  of  the  carving.  My  bas- 
ket. ...  It  is  a  little  cumbrous,  but  I  really  couldn't 
think  of  letting  you.  .  .  .  Well  then,  dear  friend,  if 
you  insist.  .  .  .  Now  for  the  really  remarkable  ending 
of  my  boy's  story. 

' '  He  flew  to  his  cousin  for  consolation.  Now,  Wendo- 
leth  Caer-Brydglingbury  is  extremely  sympathetic.  Only 
for  the  color  of  her  hair — a  violent  Boadicean  red,  al- 
most purple  in  some  lights — Rustleton  and  she — but  I 
am  devoutly  thankful  things  have  turned  out  as  they 
have. 

"  'A  sea  cruise,'  said  "Wendoleth  promptly,  'will  get 
the  white  paint  out  of  your  system  quicker  than  any- 
thing I  know ;  and  your  morbid  feeling  of  vexation  with 
this  girl,  impatience  of  her  persistency  in  continuing  to 
exist,  and  so  forth,  will  vanish  with  other  things.  Mr. 
Mudge, ' — the  person  she  has  since  married, — '  has  kindly 
asked  Papa  and  myself  to  join  his  party  on  board  the 
steam-yacht  Fifi  for  a  trip  to  Lisbon,  Madeira,  and  the 
Canaries ;  join  us.  I  assure  you  a  complete  welcome  and 
at  least  half  a  cabin. '  Rustleton  recognized  the  cousinly 
kindness  in  Wendoleth 's  proposal,  accepted,  and  went 
with  her  and  Todmoxen — the  Earl  is  still  robust,  but 
not  what  he  was  in  the  'seventies,  nor  is  it  to  be  ex- 
pected— down  to  Southampton  to  join  the  Fifi.  Mudge 
is  Liberal  member  for  the  North  Clogger  Division  of 
Mudderpool.  But  for  a  crimson  necktie — the  Party 
badge — and  a  habit  of  hanging  on  to  his  own  coat-lapels 
when  conversing,  he  is  almost  quite  presentable,  and, 
like  all  those  people  who  begin  by  not  having  twopence, 
he  is  astonishingly  rich.  His  welcome  to  Rustleton  was 
cordial  in  the  extreme.  But  when  Rustleton  found  Lord 
Twissing  and  his  daughter  already  on  board,  discovered 
that  he  was  to  share  Twissing 's  cabin,  and  that  Celine 


THE    DEVIL    AND    THE    DEEP    SEA    325 

slept  in  the  one  next  door,  he  was  dismayed.  He  would 
have  excused  himself  and  left  the  Fifi  only  that  she  was 
already  on  her  way.  Fate,  like  one  of  those  curious 
jelly-like  creatures  which  wave  their  tentacles  to  attract 
their  prey  and  then  clutch  it  and  gradually  absorb  it, 
had  wrapped  its  feelers  around  my  poor  boy.  He  is 
now  resigned,  calm,  content,  even  happy;  but  when  I 
think  how  he  must  have  suffered.  .  .  .  My  salts.  In 
the  basket.  So  kind  of  you,  and  so  reviving." 

Lady  Pomphrey  inhaled  with  drooping  eyelids  and 
sniffed  at  the  salts-flagon  from  time  to  time  as  she  em- 
barked once  more  upon  her  narrative  way. 

"The  Fifi  anchored  for  the  night,  which  promised  to 
be  squally,  in  Southampton  Water,  about  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  Hythe  Pier.  Depressed  and  discouraged,  my 
boy  retired  to  his  cabin,  leaving  the  entire  party  scream- 
ing over  'Bridge'  at  a  number  of  little  tables  in  the  sa- 
loon. He  had  just  put  on  his  nightalines, — pink  with  a 
green  stripe,  the  jacket  ornamented  with  green  braid  in 
loops,  to  match — and  was  attending  to  his  teeth  with  a 
palm-stick,  when,  with  a  terrific  crash,  all  the  electric 
lights  went  out  and  the  Fifi  was  plunged  in  darkness. 
I  shudder  when  I  realize  the  awf ulness  of  all  that.  Don 't 
you?" 

The  friend  supplied  a  shudder  expressly  manufactured 
for  the  purpose. 

"A  Welsh  collier  steamer,  the  Rattletrap,  from  Pen- 
wryg,  had  run  down  Mr.  Mudge's  yacht,  becoming  firm- 
ly embedded  in  the  hull  of  the  craft — the  details  are 
graven  on  my  memory,"  said  Lady  Pomphrey  impress- 
ively— "immediately  forward  of  the  engine-room.  The 
crew  turned  out — not  into  the  sea,  but  out  of  their  ham- 
mocks— the  'Bridge'  players  rushed  in  confusion  upon 
deck.  In  their  evening  dresses,  without  being  even  able 
to  save  a  bag  from  below,  Mr.  Mudge's  party  were 
dragged  over  the  grimy  bows  of  the  collier.  The  crew 
scrambled  after.  The  captain  of  the  Rattletrap,  having 


326    THE    DEVIL    AND    THE    DEEP    SEA 

ascertained  that  the  Fifi  was  rapidly  filling,  and  that  all 
her  passengers,  as  he  thought,  were  safe  on  board  his 
vessel,  was  about  to  give  the  signal  from  the  bridge  to 
reverse  engines  when,  with  an  appalling  scream  a  lithe 
young  girl  in  a  crepe  de  Chine  evening  wrap  embroid- 
ered with  roses  and  turtle-doves — quite  symbolic  when 
you  think  of  it — leaped  back  upon  the  deck  of  the  Fifi 
and  disappeared  below.  Guess  who  she  was,  and  whither 
she  had  gone?  You  can?  You  do?  What  romance  in 
real  life,  isn  't  it  ?  Celine  Twissing  had  missed  Eustleton, 
and,  knowing  that  he  occupied  the  cabin  next  to  her  own, 
had  rushed  below  to  save  him. 

"He  had  rung  for  his  man  and  was  waiting  calmly  to 
be  dressed,  when  she  burst  in  the  door  with  her  shoulder 
— have  you  ever  noticed  her  shoulders  ? — and  shrieked  to 
him  to  come  on  deck  and  be  saved.  Wrapped  in  a  Scotch 
plaid  which  he  had  hastily  thrown  over  his  pyjamas  at 
the  moment  of  her  entrance,  he  defied  her,  rebuked  her 
immodesty  in  entering  a  gentleman's  dressing-room  un- 
announced, ordered  her  to  quit  the  cabin  and  go  back 
to  her  father.  When  properly  attired  to  appear  before 
ladies,  my  boy,  ever  chivalrous  and  delicate-minded,  said 
he  would  board  the  Rattletrap.  '  Don 't  you  feel  that  this 
yacht  is  water-logged?'  screamed  Celine  Twissing. 
'Don't  you  know  she'll  sink  under  our  feet  in  another 
minute?  Come  on  deck  at  once,  you  duffing  little  pre- 
cisian, unless  you  want  me  to  carry  you!'  He  retorted 
with  contempt.  She  instantly  seized  him  in  her  muscu- 
lar arms — have  you  ever  noticed  her  arms? — threw  him, 
Scotch  plaid  and  all,  over  her  shoulder,  carried  him  up 
the  yacht's  companion-ladder,  and  amidst  the  cheers  of 
the  united  crews  of  the  Fifi  and  the  Rattletrap,  handed 
him  over  the  bulwarks  to  the  men  of  the  collier.  Then 
she  followed,  the  captain  gave  the  order  to  go  astern,  the 
collier  reversed  her  engines,  the  water  rushed  into  the 
yacht,  and  she  sank  instantly.  All  that  can  be  seen  of 


THE    DEVIL    AND    THE    DEEP    SEA    327 

her  to-day  is  her  masts.  And  Celine  Twissing  and  my 
boy  are  to  be  made  one  at  St.  George 's,  Hanover  Square, 
in  the  first  week  of  the  Winter  Season.  Celine  will  be 
married  in  white  satin  and  mousseline  trimmed  with  sil- 
ver embroidery,  and  she  goes  away  in  a  gown  of  putty- 
colored  velvelise — the  new  stuff.  I  believe  she  secretly 
adored  Eustleton  from  the  very  beginning,  and  he,  I  feel, 
is  reconciled  to  the  inscrutable  appointments  of  Provi- 
dence. How  we  have  been  chattering,  haven't  we? 
Time  for  luncheon  now.  Oh,  I  pray,  no  carp  in  beer, 
or  eels  with  currant  jelly.  But  one  never  knows.  Au 
revoir,  dear!  Au  revoir!"  And  Lady  Pomphrey  put 
up  her  green  sunshade  and  sailed  away. 


THE  END 


J£3SS£!i38&!&  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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